


A Dash of Salt

by WizardsGirl



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Derek is a sourwolf, Fluff, May make you hungry, Mommy!Stiles, Other, Pack Dynamics, Peter Hale is still a creeper, Puppy Piles, Recipes, Stiles is oblivious, Stiles is the Wolf-Whisperer, Warnings for Overdoses of Adorable
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-27
Updated: 2012-09-01
Packaged: 2017-11-12 23:57:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WizardsGirl/pseuds/WizardsGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After reading up on Pack Dynamics, and looking over everyone in the Pack, Stiles doesn't feel he contributes anything. He's determined to fix that. Drabble style. T for, well, threats of castration and cursing seem to cover it... Yeah... Stiles!Centric, loads of fluffiness, weirdness, and vague Sterek, if you kinda squint and tilt your head a bit. PROMPTS ACCEPTED! Sterek situation may evolve, other pairings may appear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Dash of Salt

**Author's Note:**

> So, this started because of my friend Tori, otherwise known as HiddenByFaeries. All her fault. Just saying.
> 
> All recipes in this fic are real and can be used. I've been informed that it makes people hungry to read this, so... Yeah. Just warning you.

 

**A Dash of Salt**

**Summery:** After reading up on Pack Dynamics, and looking over everyone in the Pack, Stiles doesn’t feel he contributes anything. He’s determined to fix that.

**CHAPTER BEGINS**

Stiles watched everyone from where he was sprawled on his Dad’s recliner. Jackson was trying to get Lydia to pay attention to him while snarking at Scott, who was ignoring him in favor of nuzzling Allison’s neck and cuddling on the couch. Lydia was filing her nails and just projecting her usual air of sheer Goddessliness while doing it. Derek had yet to arrive, and Danny had only made it a few minutes ago and had gone straight to the bathroom, but he’d be back any moment and would join Jackson on the floor to take up the second controller for a game of Mario-Kart.

Stiles remained quiet for once, sliding into the background, unnoticed as his eyes took everything in, and his ADHD mind spazzed over a hundred different thoughts that somehow wound up connected anyways, about everyone’s actions.

_Jackson_ – the way he was trying to get Lydia’s attention, to challenge Scott, even though he was the Omega, the lowest Wolf on the totem pole, and, as Danny joined him, how he shifted so his should brushed the other boys in an affectionate, protective way.

_Lydia_ – who was acting like she was ignoring everyone, but Stiles noticed the way she’d shift to “get comfortable”, and that it allowed her to see everyone in the room. She was the Alpha Female, and while she may have seemed to be a bit of a bitch and only concerned with her popularity status, she took the Pack’s well-being almost more seriously than Derek did in many ways.

_Scott_ – the Beta, who was, even now, scent-marking Allison and making sure all-and-sundry knew that she belonged to him, even as he appeared to be wrapped around her little finger.

And his thoughts jumped to everything these people brought to the pack, including their currently-absent Alpha.

Derek, who brought protection and guidance, even if it _was_ in the form of a gruff voice and growls and some wall-shoving. Lydia, who would be kind and loving at the most inspiring moments, but was also ready and willing to tear anyone who harmed her Packmates to shreds and make them _scream_. Scott, who was strong and obsessive and not that smart but pretty damned determined. Jackson, who, even when he was trying to be a total asshat _douche_ , still had that eager-to-please/belong look about his eyes and the way he’d subtly try and make things work out without seeming to. Allison, with her Hunter training, but still her glowing, utter, gentle kindness that could bring the goodness out of _everyone_. Danny, who was sarcastic and kind and pretty awesome, who had skills with a computer that Stiles was pretty sure Bill Gates would jizz in his pants to have working for him and, _ew,_ thought change, now!

And then there was him…

Blank.

Stiles stared at the screen, as Danny and Jackson cajoled one another, as Scott and Allison cheered them on and Lydia sneered her delicate way with soft eyes, and he couldn’t think of one damn way he helped the Pack… Helped _his_ Pack.

He needed to fix that, but how? Everyone already had a notch; they meshed. His place _couldn’t_ just be the babbling, human, one-man-comedy-show!

Could it?

“Man, I’m starving!” Scott’s sudden complaint cut through his worried, spastic thoughts, and he answered automatically, as if it were his Dad instead of his best friend.

“I’m going, I’m going,” he said, flicking his hands at him and getting up, padding towards the kitchen, lost, still, in his thoughts, and totally missing the startled looks half of the Pack shot him.

“Dude, I didn’t mean-“ Scott started, but Stiles turned and jabbed a finger at him.

“Hush,” he said sternly; Scott hushed, eyes big and startled, and Stiles _did_ notice the flash of calculation that passed over Lydia’s face as he placed his fists on his bony hips. “I’m making dinner. No one- _no one_ , Scott!-come in here without permission. I hate that,” he grumbled, and slipped into what he considered his domain, and felt all his muscles go loose as the spastic, twitchy tension he was so used to was immediately exchanged for dogged, intense _focus_.

It was one of the reasons he’d always loved cooking, ever since he was little and his mother had started teaching him, claiming about how he must have gotten it from her side because his father was so _hopeless_ and would burn _water_. It made him feel closer to her, even now, and he smiled faintly to himself as he went about going through the kitchen to see what his options were, because if there was anything he had noticed about wolfy-teenagers, it was that they ate. A LOT. As in, when normal teenagers can eat a cow, wolfy-ones can eat a herd.

Of bison.

On Steroids.

Which reminds him, he needs to make sure no one _else_ thinks Jackson and Scott are on the ‘Roids, because Danny was more than enough to make him have mini-panic-attacks until they’d gotten that all cleared up…

Hey! He had white-wine vinegar… and Cayenne and cornstarch! Score! All he needed was more chicken and he could get a meal done, ten minutes, tops… Quickly, he pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he came to _Sourwolf_. He hit call and waited as it rung, getting out the swear-to-God actual Wok his Aunt Suzie had given him for his fourteenth birthday and the rest of the materials.

_"What?”_ Derek grunted over the phone; Stiles hummed.

“Hey, wolfy, quick question: Before you get here, could you stop by the grocery store and pick up a bunch of chicken breast? The boneless kind, please. Have them put it one the Stilinski tab or I can pay you back later, doesn’t matter,” he said cheerfully as he looked for the onions. “And a bag of green onions would be fantastic.”

_“…Why?”_ The Alpha actually sounded suspicious and Stiles smirked slightly, amused as he got out a large sandwich bag to pour the cornstarch in and set aside.

“’Cause I’m going to feed the furry masses, but the key ingredients are missing, and I’m too lazy to think of a different recipe right now that would be as fast as the one I’ve got.” He poured the vegetable oil into the Wok, and then set about neatly mincing the garlic cloves, the blade stuttering against the wooden cutting board loudly and quickly as he pinned his cellphone to his ear with his shoulder and continuously grabbed more cloves from the generous bag he’d bought about two weeks ago. He stopped when he had a decent pile.

_“Fine,”_ Derek grunted, and hung up, and Stiles washed and dried his hands before he closed his phone and put it back in his pocket. Forty minutes later, during which time he had made his Mom’s Two-Minute Fudge (minus the nuts, because he hated the way they took away from the sheer, chocolaty goodness, though he still loved the treat either way), he heard Derek’s car pull up. Pulling the casserole dish from the freezer, he cut it into thirty-six pieces, before sliding the whole thing into the fridge to keep it cool. The taller, older, growly man stalked into Stiles kitchen, and it was all Stiles could do to swallow his own growl, taking a deep breath and smiling in thanks as he accepted the bags of chicken and onions and immediately set to chopping the meat into one-and-a-half-inch pieces.

“Derek-“ Scott started from the door, stepping in, mouth opening to continue-

The knife was out of Stiles hand and imbedded in the already-heavily-scarred wall six inches to the left of his best friends head, and stunned, silence feel over the room.

“Out,” he said, lifting his head and smiling a sweet, gentle smile at the frozen, wide-eyed Scott. “Of my Kitchen, Scott Daniel McCall, before I castrate you, shove your cock down your throat, and watch you choke to death on it,” he finished pleasantly, expression never shifting, and he wondered, briefly, if he looked a bit like Peter Hale and that just brought up memories of the Bad Touch and then he blinked and Scott was gone, back in the living room, and he was turning and picking up the extra knife he always had on hand just in case something like this occurred.

Even after all these years, his Dad _still_ tried to come in without asking sometimes.

“What the hell was that, Stilinski?” Jackson asked, peering through the doorway, eying the knife imbedded a good way into the wall, and then the one in his hand warily, and keeping his body mostly hidden. Stiles rolled his shoulder, tension sliding off of them like water as he once again focused on the food in his hands.

“I warned you all,” he said blandly, voice calm, pleasant, eyes half-lidded as he watched his hands move efficiently and swiftly. “No one is allowed in my kitchen when I’m working, unless they have explicit permission. Derek has it, because he brought me groceries. This is my territory, my den, and I will _eviscerate you_ if you trespass.” He paused, looked up, and smiled at the other boy, eyes wide and blank, knife held with a comfortable ease. “That cool with you, dude?” he asked; Jackson nodded slowly, as if moving suddenly would get him impaled, and Stiles beamed and made a shooing motion, going back to his food, finishing the last of the chicken and moving to chop the onions. There was blessed silence in the kitchen for all of five minutes, enough time for him to finish chopping the onions and setting them aside, putting the garlic and the chicken-cubes into the bag of cornstarch, shaking it up lightly to coat them, and finally heating the Wok and vegetable oil.

“What are you making?” Derek asked, and Stiles glanced over at him to find him leaning against the wall, arms crossed, and inscrutable look on his face for once, instead of an angry/snarly/I-Alpha-You-Bug look.

“Ten Minute Szechuan Chicken,” Stiles replied simply; he was in his groove, now, and so totally Zen he didn’t even blush at the raised, disbelieving eyebrow he got.

“It’s gonna be good. Trust me,” he assured, and he smiled, before he checked the clock, and then peered at the oil in the Wok. Deciding it was hot enough, he began dumping the chicken-and-garlic mixture in, adding more oil and carefully turning, stirring, and generally making sure it cooked all the way through, enjoying the loud, sizzling sound and the smell that began to rise.

When the mixture was lightly browned, he added the required soy sauce, the white-wine vinegar, sugar and water to it, stirred it until properly mixed, and then put the lid on it and glanced at the clock, guesstimating the time needed.

“Help me set the table?” he asked Derek; the Alpha just stared at him, but pushed away from the wall and took the plates when Stiles offered them, while he grabbed some silverware and then padded quickly over to the closet to drag out the extra folding chairs they had. Then he hurried back to the Wok, removed the lid, and added the green onions and Cayenne, stirring lazily with the lid off for two more minutes after turning the heat to the lowest setting. Nodding, utterly pleased with the delicious scent that’s rising from his Wok, he turned, and blinked as he saw that Derek had shifted the chairs and plates around while he was working, putting the two actual chairs at one end of the table, and spreading the rest along what remained.

“You’ll sit there,” Derek ordered, pointing at the chair Stiles had always sat in anyways, when he ate with his Dad, and he nodded, tilting his head at the Alpha’s actions, before shrugging and getting a massive bowl, and setting it beside the large Wok.

“I’m not quite done yet,” he told Derek honestly, and ignored the complaints from the living room. “This,” he gestured at the large amount of steaming food on the stove, “well, its enough for a few humans to eat, sure, but you Werewolves eat _a lot_. So, I’m going to get out a bit more so that the foods not gone before everyone’s full, you know?” Derek nodded, and then growled towards the living room, eyes flashing that bright, lava-red that made a part in the back of Stiles mind that didn’t want to be Zen at the moment babble incoherently for a second about analogies and metaphors and compare-contrast.

“If you don’t want to wait patiently for the food, you won’t eat it when it’s done,” Derek snarled at the doorway; Stiles snorted and shook his head.

“Babies,” he said, in a normal voice, not bothering to try and be quiet (really, with their enhanced hearing, everyone but Allison and Danny would have heard him anyways, and could he just say, _awkward!_ )

“Hey!” Came Scott’s pretty-much-predictable shout. If Stiles hadn’t turned to dig through the pantry, he would have seen the corner of Derek’s mouth twitch up slightly.

“The correct term is Cub,” the Alpha rumbled; Stiles blinked and glanced back, a flash of mischief in his brown eyes.

“Not puppy?” he asked innocently; Derek’s smile was all sharp, white teeth.

“No,” he said, now with a hint of growl, and, as they were in his kitchen and Stiles wanted _no_ damage done to _anything_ , least of all because of his own mouth-diarrhea, he shut up for once, just settling for flashing the Werewolf a cheeky grin, before he was snooping through the pantry again.

“Hmm,” he said, mostly to himself. “I made fudge for dessert, so that’s covered… The chicken and such has vegetables and protein, so that’s good, and is only two hundred twenty-one calories, which is awesome.” He picked up a mango and a jar of clear honey with a thoughtful look. “I could make Aam Lhassi,” he mused, lips pursed, before he set them down again. “Thoughts for later,” he decided. “Abidjan Cabbage Salad?” he wondered, contemplative. He tilted his head. “Anyone allergic to pineapple?” he asked; after a second Derek replied, right behind him.

“No,” he grunted. Stiles pursed his lips, and he hummed.

“That’s pretty easy to make,” he said thoughtfully, straightening and crossing his arms over his chest, tapping his foot as his mind sped through recipes, discarding and pointing them out at random based on what he had and time. “Maybe a soup too… Aigo Bouido takes thirty minutes, which would be enough time to make the Aam Lhassi _and_ the Abidjan Cabbage Salad,” he said, eyes narrowing. “But then I’d need some sort of bread… No, no, the rolls from the other night are still fresh, and there are plenty left for everyone…” He turned and sent a questioning look to Derek. “Think another thirty minutes would kill them?” He asks; his eyes, though, ask _are **you** willing to wait another thirty minutes?_

“They’ll live and deal with it or _I’ll_ kill them,” the Alpha said simply, after staring at him for a few minutes, and Stiles practically _beams_ up at him before he starts gathering ingredients, handing quite a bit to the Werewolf and telling him to put them on the counter by the stove. Once everything is done, he gets to work on the soup, which is really just a creamy garlic soup, but not a Cream of Garlic soup…

Whatever!

He sets a large pot of water on the stove and, while he’s waiting for it to start boiling, gets salad ready, since all he has to do is get the thinly sliced cabbage, shredded carrot, and chunks of pineapple (fresh. God but he hates canned foods…) into a big bowl, add a mix of lemon juice, orange juice (straight from an actual orange and lemon), salt, and olive oil, which was used as the dressing, and stick the whole thing in the fridge with the fudge. By then, the water was boiling and so he dropped the garlic cloves in, counted off thirty seconds, drained them and ran cold water over them, before peeling them. Then, he put the pot away, threw all the ingredients for the soup into his three-quart saucepan, and set it to boil for the next thirty minutes.

With that done, he decided against making the Aam Lhassi, and instead decided on the special cheese-bread that usually accompanied Aigo Bouido, and moved about, putting away ingredients and getting different ones out, including a loaf of Texas Toast that he’d gotten with the vague thought of French Toast, and got started. But first… Stiles grabbed a weird thing called a soup tureen and a wire whisk, and got to work on some egg yokes, adding olive oil carefully, and making a mayonnaise.

He didn’t have French bread, but he could improvise, so he took the Texas Toast, buttered it carefully, and shoved it in the oven for ten minutes. He stirred the soup, and then the chicken in the Wok (which was still on its lowest setting in order to keep it warm). After the timer for the bread went off, he pulled on his purple oven mitts and pulled the tray out, and lathered each and every piece in a generous covering of the Swiss cheese he’d just finished grating, before popping it back in the oven to melt.

When the soup was done, he took a ladleful and carefully, drop-for-drop, whisked it into the mayonnaise. Then he got the strainer and began adding in the rest of the soup, beating and pressing the juice out of the garlic. That done, he stirred, breathing in the delicious smells with a pleased hum, and pulled the bread out of the oven, smiling at the golden-brown edges.

Oh yeah, he’s the freaking _man~!_

“Dinner’s ready,” he called and snickered in amusement, as there was a mad dash for the kitchen by Scott and Jackson, shaking his head as the girls and Danny hurried in after them. Derek let out a deep, thunderous growl that had Jackson scrambling for a different seat when the jock started to take the one the Alpha had all but reserved for Stiles, and the boy blinked at that, before he was moving around, setting the meal on the table, smacking Scott’s hand sharply when the other boy started reaching for the bread and making him yelp, giving huge, wounded eyes that didn’t affect Stiles when he was in his kitchen, because, hel _lo_ , his _Dad_ gave him that look sometimes too.

“Wait,” he said sternly, and continued to put food on the table, scooping the chicken in the Wok into the large bowl and making it the center-point, and getting the salad last, as well as bowls for everyone to have their soup in. Then he stood and got everyone a glass of water, giving Jackson a narrow-eyed look when he tried to snark about having something else to drink.

“You could sit in the corner and _watch_ while everyone else eats, until we’re done,” Stiles replied, staring at him without blinking. Jackson immediately gaped, and turned to complain to Derek, who gave him a hard look.

“Stiles kitchen, his food, his rules,” he grunted, a ring of red lining his iris, and Jackson flinched slightly, before sitting back with a huff. Stiles stared at him for a few moments longer, before nodding, satisfied, and then proceeded to fill Derek’s plate for him with a large heap of food and then make a plate of food and set it in the fridge for his dad later. Only then did he sit down, and glance at them all.

“Well?” he asked; there was an immediate scrabbling for the food, and chatter amongst everyone. “By the way, the bread is for the soup,” he said, as he calmly waited until everyone had food before getting his own. Derek was already halfway through his plate, eyes occasionally sweeping the table to take everyone in. Stiles eyes did the same, and the curling of smug satisfaction, as the chatter dropped off to silence once the first few bites of food passed the Packs lips, was quite nice for him, he had to admit. His eyes met Derek’s, and he smiled slightly before he dropped his gaze and went back to carefully dunking pieces of his bread into his bowl of soup.

When everyone was done, Stiles stood and went to the fridge, pulling out the tray of fudge and using a spatula to put all thirty-six pieces onto a plate, before he carried it over to the table. He offered it to Derek first, because in all his research he knew that the Alpha _always_ ate first, except in special cases, and the older man took one with a nod. Stiles then walked around the table, offering the plate of goodness, allowing up to two pieces for each person, before setting his own, single piece on his empty, mostly-spotless plate and putting plastic-wrap over the rest, before putting it in the fridge.

“That was _amazing_ , Stiles,” Allison announced, and was immediately agreed with by everyone. Scott had his face on the table and was whimpering, and Stiles frowned at him worriedly, walking over to pat his head. His friend looked up at him with huge eyes.

“Why haven’t you ever cooked for me before?” he asked, with such a petulant, plaintive voice that Stiles snorted. “I’m your _best friend_!” Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Dude,” he said giving his friend an amused look. “Whenever you spent the night, we gorged on store-bought cookies, candy, popcorn, and ordered-out fast-food. So sorry that you’d rather have pizza in fifteen minutes then wait an hour for a decent meal, but, hey, I’m not going to work just so you can complain.” He sniffed slightly, and then smirked. “Besides. I _like_ pizza, and fast-food, and stuff that someone else makes. Means I can be lazy for a night.” Scott gaped up at him, and then Stiles shook his head and took what remained of the food, putting it into little Tupperware containers for later (they’d probably disappear into his Dad’s breakfast/Lunch tomorrow, anyways, so no waste…). Before he could do more than reach for the dirty dishes, though, Derek had grabbed his wrists with a stern look, and shook his head, before glaring at the pack.

“Jackson, Scott, Danny, go clean the wreck you left of the living room,” he ordered, baring a bit of fang and eyes flashing red when Jackson complained. “ _Now_.” They scrambled out. “Lydia, Allison, do the dirty dishes. _No complaints_ ,” he snarled at Lydia; she huffed, pouting, but obeyed, and Allison sent Stiles a warm smile as she went as well, not at all bothered. The boy turned a disgruntled look up to the Alpha.

“I could do that,” he complained, sulking. “I do it all the time anyways, a few extra dishes and a little extra mess isn’t that bad!” Derek gave him a stern look, and now _Stiles_ huffed, tossing his hands in the air. “Fine, have it your way Mister Sourwolf,” he snapped, pouting, but then started moving the extra chairs back to the closet, getting one there, and turning to get another…

Only to find Derek right behind him with the rest.

“Gah!” He yelped, jumping slightly, hand on his heart. He glowered up at the Alpha, who arched an eyebrow and brushed past him to put the chairs away. “Damn bossy wolves,” Stiles muttered, knowing perfectly well that the other could hear him, and padded swiftly out of arms reach when Derek gave a low, quiet growl. He straightened the cloth on the table, noting that it would have to be switched with a new one in the morning before he left for school, and then he got a broom and started sweeping around and under the table, ignoring Derek when he noticed the Alpha’s narrowed eyes.

“You are not throwing off my entire routine,” he informed the older man with a sort of calm, idle threat in his voice, the same tone he’d used on Jackson earlier when talking about eviscerating him. “I _have_ to do certain things, _especially_ in my kitchen. And I _will_ do them,” he said, eyes narrowing dangerously, and Derek stared back. After a few minutes, Stiles sniffed at him haughtily and turned back to his sweeping, ignoring the low growl he got.

When everyone left a while later (after watching the movie _Tron_ and generally making fun of to-tight clothes and enjoying it), Stiles once again went over what everyone did for the Pack…

And decided that, if nothing else, he could cook, and possibly clean for them. After all, he did that for his Dad, and the Pack _was_ his family…

Satisfied, he grabbed himself one last piece of fudge, and then headed for bed.


	2. Stir-Fry Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Summery: Now that he’s gotten into his role as “Mommy Wolf”, Stiles isn’t about to let his “Cubs” get away with things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… Wrote another Drabble/One-shot thing… Inspired by my niece (technically 2nd Cousin) Nevaeh, who doesn’t like Green Beans…
> 
> Yeah…

**Stir-Fry Blues**

**Summary:**  Now that he's gotten into his role as "Mommy Wolf", Stiles isn't about to let his "Cubs" get away with things.

**CHAPTER BEGINS**

 

Over the last few weeks, Stiles had noticed a shift in the Pack. Meetings had starting taking place at his house more and more frequently, and when they didn’t, Derek was always making sure he had enough time to bring a pre-made meal for when the Meetings took place at the old Hale House. And, after the first time Lydia had torn her shirt, and Stiles had let her wear his while he sewed hers up neatly, he found himself going to the store for more detergent more often than he ever had to before, because the Pack’s clothes kept ending up at his house when it needed washing, something that amused Mrs. McCall to no end when she stopped by every Saturday to pick up Scott's things.

Honestly, the Pack would have had him and his Dad eaten/cleaned out of house and home by now, if it weren’t for the fact that Derek was paying for, literally, _everything_. And when Stiles confronted him about it? He’d gotten a low growl, a stern look, and a grunted,

“Pack takes care of Pack.”

And that was that.

It actually left Stiles with warm, fuzzy feelings he’d rather not think about because, hello, _boy here_! All for the repressing of anything that wasn’t hormonal angst and lust and other totally not girly things! Except, he was totally being a bit girly, and he was allowed to be, because, by now, he’d realized he was essentially playing House with the Pack. With Mommy Stiles, Daddy Derek, Auntie Lydia, and then the others were all the socially-deficient kids… Cubs…

What _ever_!

And, was it weird that he got a little anxious when he wasn’t around any of the Pack? Like, his ADHD got a little worse, and he got a little nervous and twitchy and-Hey look! A Squirrel!-? Maybe it was a little weird, but then someone would find him, and there would be touching of the totally not-Peter-Bad-Touch kind, like Lydia dragging her nails over his wannabe buzzcut, or Scott throwing an arm around his shoulders, or Allison hugging him, or Jackson roughly bumping his shoulder against Stiles, or Danny squeezing his arm. Derek had stopped throwing him against walls, now, and even _he_ did the casual-touch thing, putting a hand on the back of Stiles neck every once in a while, and was it bad that that _calmed him down_?!

Maybe he was getting absurdly codependent or something, but he wouldn’t trade his moments with the Pack for anything.

Humming lowly in approval at the thought, he went back to preparing the African Vegetarian Stew he was preparing to go along with the Afghan Chicken (a rather interesting chicken that’s marinated in a weird, garlic-y yogurt and supposed to be served with soft pita or Arab flatbread and fresh yogurt, but Stiles was nothing if not a non-conformist), mashed potatoes (seasoned with chives), and a steamed stir-fry of broccoli, corn, asparagus, and mushrooms, and assorted herbs and spices, of course.

The soup, though, that’s what he was making now. Well, first of all, he would gladly take up the offer of substituting Kohlrabi with parsnips, as he had no idea what the hell kohlrabi was and would have to look it up later for research-purposes. For now, though, he tossed the parsnips, chopped onions, chunked up, peeled sweet potatoes, thickly sliced zucchini, fresh tomatoes, the fifteen ounce can of garbanzo beans (liquid and all), half-cup of wheat (he went with bulgar), and the fourth cup of raisins, all into a large saucepan, and turned it up until it started to boil. Then he lowered the heat, and let it simmer. It would have to do so for exactly thirty minutes.

About fifteen minutes into that, the timer went off for the pies he had in the oven, and he pulled on his trusty purple mitts and pulled them out to sit on the counter and cool. One was cinnamon-apple, and the other was peach. He had some freshly-made whipped-cream and caramel to put on them as well, if the others were so inclined, and he sat back on the heels of his feet and looked over everything, feeling pleased with himself.

“I need someone to come set the table,” he called easily; there was a scramble at the door, and Scott was there, wrestling with Jackson, making Stiles roll his eyes and smile at Danny when the boy slunk stealthily past the two Wolves. “Thank you, Danny,” he said easily, making Scott and Jackson stop and gape. He gave them a half-lidded look. “Shoo,” he told them simply, and they shooed, which, Stiles had to admit, _was_ a bit of a power trip. They _all_ had learned exactly how vicious he was in protecting ‘his territory’, when _Derek_ had had to duck a knife, and then another, and then a _cleaver_ , before he had scrambled out of the kitchen, not even a _week_ into Stiles self-imposed “Mommy” duties.

The table was set, bowls, plates, chairs, glasses of water, and silverware out, and finally the soup finished, so Stiles let out a sharp, chirruping whistle. Everyone moved into the kitchen, knowing enough by now which chairs they were allowed to take and which ones they weren’t. Like he usually did, Stiles made Derek’s plate for him, and then made a plate for his Dad and set it in the fridge. Then, he sat down, looked over everything, then everyone, and smiled.

“Well?” He asked, just like he did every time; and everyone immediately began to dig in. But, as he watched and waited, just like he always did, his eyes narrowed slightly as he watched Jackson get his food, which consisted of a large chunk of chicken and a big serving of potatoes, but as little of everything else as possible.

“Is there something wrong with my stir-fry, Jackson?” He asked sweetly, cocking his head to the side, and everyone seemed to still slightly. Jackson hunched slightly, and swallowed the bite of chicken in his mouth.

“No, I just don’t really like vegetables,” he said, scowling, and Stiles tilted his head, watching him, and then nodded.

“Understandable,” he said, mildly, and gave him a kind smile. “Here, you don’t have to eat what you don’t like,” he told him, and offered his hand. “Give me your plate, and I’ll take off the vegetables.” Jackson hesitated, then slowly obeyed, handing him the plate under his Alpha’s hard look. Stiles calmly used his own fork to scrape all the stir-fry onto his plate, and then reached over to accept the bowl and dumped it into his bowl. He then took half the potatoes, and put the rest on Derek’s plate, as the Alpha was already halfway done, and now sporting an amused, satisfied look.

“Hey!” Jackson yelped; Stiles gave him a calm, easy smile as he handed him back the plate, empty but for the piece of chicken, and the empty bowl.

“Yes?” He asked; Jackson flushed, eyes glinting green angrily.

“You took all the potatoes,” he complained. “I _like_ potatoes!” Stiles tilted his head.

“No,” he said calmly. “I took all the _vegetables_. You _said_ you _don’t_ like _vegetables_. Didn’t you, Jackson?” He asked, putting emphasis on certain words to pound his point home. “Now there are no vegetables for you to worry about, and you have your share of the chicken, too.” He turned, and took his single piece of chicken, and began to eat, calm and satisfied as Jackson gave a low, frustrated growl and began to attack his chicken. At Scott’s snicker, though, Stiles spoke while he continued to cut a piece of asparagus in half.

“If you taunt Jackson at my table again, Scott, I _will_ make you stand in the corner like a naughty child,” he threatened blandly; his friend made a squawking noise, but Allison shushing him and telling him to eat his broccoli made him settle down, grumbling under his breath. After he had almost finished his meal, Stiles shifted his eyes over to Jackson, who was fiddling with his napkin and staring at his empty plate morosely.

“Is there something you’d like to say, Jackson?” He asked gently; the Omega hunched his shoulders and nodded vaguely.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, “Can I have some vegetables?” Stiles beamed at him and nodded, standing and putting the food on the boys plate, making sure he had a large helping of potatoes and a smaller helping of stir-fry and soup (but still larger then what the boy had tried to get by with earlier, and less potatoes). “Thank you,” the jock said grudgingly, already digging in; Stiles patted his head lightly and sat back down after giving himself another half-bowl of soup. Scott looked like he wanted to say something to the Omega, but settled under the stern glower of his Alpha, and the disapproving frown of his girlfriend/mate/whatever-he-called-Allison…

Honeybuns?

Anyways, once Stiles had completely finished his soup, and Jackson had easily caught up with the rest of the Pack in the food-eating department, Stiles got up and served the pie, allowing Derek to get one of each piece, but making those pieces slightly smaller then average as he only let everyone else have one, and giving the Alpha a stern look when he frowned.

“Deal with it, Sourwolf,” he ordered, and dropped a spoonful of whipped-cream onto Allison’s slice of cinnamon-apple pie carefully. If he didn’t know any better, he would have said that Derek was _pouting_ after that, but no, he must be wrong, because it _had_ to be a _glower_ , which fit the Sourwolf-Alpha much better.

Yes, a glower…

Oh, hell, he couldn’t even fool himself: the muscle-bound Werewolf _was_ pouting, he was down-right _sulking_ as he ate his pie, and it was all Stiles could do not to laugh, but he couldn’t do that, not after getting onto Scott for teasing Jackson. Monkey-see, Monkey-do, and all that. And, well, he’d be damned before he was one of those do-what-I-say-despite-the-fact-that-even- _ **I**_ -ignore-me “parents” to his Pack. Stiles settled for shaking his head instead, shooting the Alpha a knowing look, and eating his small piece of peach pie that he’d drizzled some of his homemade caramel on.

Once all the food was put away, he watched as Derek handed out cleaning duties. Lydia, Danny, and Scott got the living room this week, while Allison and Jackson got the dishes, and the Alpha didn’t even bother asking before he grabbed the extra chairs and put them away. Stiles huffed slightly, but grabbed the tablecloth, folded it, and carried it to the laundry room to drop it onto the pile of sheets he had to wash… Most of which didn’t belong to him _or_ his Dad, he noticed with mild, chagrined amusement. He walked back to the kitchen, and accepted the broom Derek awkwardly handed to him, and began to sweep easily, scooping it all into a dustpan and dumping it into the nearly over-flowing trash. He set the broom aside and closed the bag, pulling it out of the can and turning to look at Derek with an arched brow.

“This needs to go to the dumpster,” he told the Alpha, who simply nodded, picked it up, and carried it out with barely a grimace at the smells no doubt assaulting his nose. Stiles had no problem believing he was delegating trash-duty to one of the Pack members for future reference, and snorted slightly, grinning. He wandered over and started putting clean dishes away, since, now that Derek was out of the room, he _could_ , and got a giggle from Allison when he winked at her.

“You’re going to get in trouble,” she told him; he huffed, amused.

“Meh,” was all he replied, waving the warning away, and, when a few minutes later Derek returned, he continued putting dishes away, ignoring the annoyed growl he got. When he felt the steady heat that radiated from the Alpha, pressing against his back, he tilted his head up and smiled sweetly up at him, the back of his head just barely brushing the older man’s chiseled chest.

“Yes, Sourwolf?” he asked innocently. “Can I help you with something?” Derek’s moss-green eyes narrowed, a tiny, little ring of red outlining them, and he leaned down, and Stiles could _feel_ the subvocal growl he was making, vibrating through his chest.

“You. Are. Insufferable.” The man growled at him; he blinked, and then beamed.

“Gosh,” she said, all shy and mischievous. “That’s gotta be the nicest thing you’ve ever called me.” He grins unrepentantly up at the man as that subvocal growl went vocal, though it remained low, and then he leaned forward, ducking his head slightly and allowing the back of his neck to curve out towards the Alpha in a silent apology known only in the words of body-language.

His research on wolves was very thorough, and he knew all the little movements and had memorized all the little sounds, and knew their meanings. He could _so_ talk wolf. A gen-u-ine Wolf Whisperer, yep, that’s what he was! And, being the Wolf Whispering expert-person that he was, he expected the teeth that rested on either side of his spine, the tongue that lightly lapped the skin between those teeth, and the rumbling, approving growl he got that told him his silent apology was accepted and that he was forgiven. Derek pulled back, and Stiles went back to putting dishes away like nothing happened, already feeling his ADHD starting to kick in again as he bounced on his toes while waiting for cups and plates and bowls, all but skipping to the cabinets and back to the sink again. Allison was shooting him worried looks, but Jackson was looking at him in a considering, relaxed way, a ring of green around his own caramel colored eyes, and Stiles just grinned at them and started babbling about the English essay due the next day, laughing at Scott’s yelp from the living room and scrambling.

After they spent an hour talking Pack-business (territory boundaries, control exorcises, hunting, full moons, etcetera, etcetera), and half-an-hour after that with everyone working on their English essay’s (well, except for Derek, for obvious reasons), Stiles, who had already finished, started a load of laundry and helped proofread Allison’s and Lydia’s work, cheerfully babbling about a dozen different things, from politics to gas prices, to the creepy guy at the coffee shop where Stiles was working who ordered a mocha cappuccino every day while licking his lips (“Which, is, like, totally creepy because the dude is, like, eighty, and, _ew_!”). After that, they settled in and watched Danny’s choice of movie, _Dragonheart_ , which had Allison sniffling against Scott’s shoulder and Lydia blinking a little too quickly to hide bright, wet eyes.

Finally, though, everyone had to leave, and Stiles was left alone, and picking up the mess they’d left of the living room anyways, which was kind of amusing seeing as how Derek had been trying to make sure there _was_ no mess for him to clean up but, hel _lo_ , _teenagers_ anyone? Once he was finished throwing away what remained of the popcorn, vacuuming the pieces left on the floor, and re-washing the dishes that his Pack had dirtied getting drinks, Stiles finally let himself relax and sigh, and head up to his room to make sure he had everything ready for the next day. He checked his email, deleting a bunch of Spam, and then exit out of his Internet.

He found himself stopping and just admiring his desktop picture, smiling slightly. He’d actually gotten a picture of Derek in full-out wolf form, and had searched out on the web for the other pictures, but he had compiled and Photoshop’d them together and made what sat before him… Okay, _Danny_ had made was sat before him, giving him fond, amused, indulging looks the entire time, but _still_.

It was the Pack, in what Stiles liked to think as wolf-form. Derek was right out front, black furred and glaring with his red eyes and aggressive, as always, while a golden-eyed, dark brown version of what he believed Scott would look like cuddled with a smaller, smoother brunet wolf with brown eyes that Stiles had no problem calling Allison. A paler brown wolf that had gleaming green eyes was staring out of the screen, and of _course_ Stiles called that Jackson, with the taller, thinner, and almost-black-brown form of wolf-Danny lounging beside him. Lydia was a dark, burnt copper wolf with gleaming purple eyes and, beside her, eyes half-lidded, sat what Stiles thought was a pretty good looking wolf version of himself, with gray-brown fur, brown eyes, and ears and paws that looks a bit too big for his body. His wolf looked gawky next to the powerful, elegant form of Lydia’s, but still managed to look indulgent and happy. Danny had even put in a background of the woods near the Hale House, and, in bright amber writing above the wolves, it declared simply: _The Pack_.

For once, Stiles left his computer on, and fell asleep staring at the screen.

 


	3. Pomegranate Oil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Helping out is all Stiles can do when he’s waiting for the food to finish cooking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired when I was randomly browsing Teen Wolf fics and saw a summery about massages… And then remembered the really nice massage oil I had that smelled like Pomegranates…
> 
> Enjoy!

**Pomegranate Oil**

**Summary:**  Helping out is all Stiles can do when he's waiting for the food to finish cooking.

**CHAPTER BEGINS**

The Hale House had been renovated, and, while lacking essential furniture, it was all top-of-the-line in the kitchen, with stainless steel fridge and massive pantry and, God, the _oven_! Stiles had almost had a cooking-orgasm, he’d been so happy, and Derek had sent him the weirdest look and left him to do his thing in order to bring in the groceries, because if he left Stiles to bring them in, it would take him forever. There were a _lot_ of groceries… And it made Stiles a little uncomfortable, sometimes, letting Derek buy so much, but the man would just stare at him if he mentioned it, and then say something like “It’s for the Pack” or something like that, and Stiles would be left with that warm, fuzzy feeling, and still a little bit of guilt. As he darted around the _gorgeous_ kitchen (and he could admit it, he might have made some manly sounds of appreciation over some of the things there. They were _not_ squeals, though. Not at all.), putting away food and generally organizing everything, he found himself feeling comfortable, even though he would be the only one in the Hale House with Derek for the next couple of hours, at least.

When the last of the bags were carried in, Stiles had even more fun, because Derek _let_ him babble out orders about where the Alpha needed to put things, and Derek _followed_ _them_! God, but it was a total power trip, and no _wonder_ Peter and Derek got all growly when someone didn’t obey them, because- _ohmygod_ he needed to switch mental topics quick before his teenage libido decided to pop in and say hello, because he just _knew_ Derek would _smell_ that and _Jesus_ but he would die of embarrassment…

“Curried Spareribs!” He blurted; Derek paused in putting a large jar of pure honey away and arched an eyebrow at him. Stiles blushed and cleared his throat. “I think I’ll make Curried Spareribs tonight,” he said simply. “Since I have a few hours before the hoard gets here and everything… How many pork spareribs did you get, since you bought, like, a bit of _everything_ from the meat section, _including_ tongue?” He asked; Derek shrugged, reached into his pocket and pulled out the receipt… Which, if Stiles had to guess, was at _least_ four feet long. Stiles took it and started looking over everything humming thoughtfully. “Three one pound spareribs will be four servings if I cook them this way,” he murmured to himself, pursing his lips. “You bought _eight_ ,” he shot the Werewolf a scolding glance, and was ignored. “That’ll feed everyone, and leave me with some I can take home to Dad for dinner, while leaving you with extra… Unless we don’t cook them all… Maybe just cook six of them; that would be best, I think, and when I get home I can whip something quick up for Dad’s meal and something up for his lunch tomorrow… Hmm…” He continued to glance over the long list, mind speeding over recipes. He misread one of the things and had to snort when he mentally fixed it. At Derek’s raised eyebrow he smiled faintly.

“I though it said ‘cat’,” he told the Alpha, “and the first thing that popped into mind was the recipe my creepy, countrified Uncle Bobby taught me, Curbside Cat, which is where you use an _actual cat_ , clean and skin it like a squirrel, stuff the empty insides with a dressing, roast it for an hour after draping the back with bacon, and then make the drippings into a gravy. My Aunt Natelie never forgave him for serving us her pet cat Poopsie, but it was bound to die sooner or later with a name like that, anyways…” He shrugged. “Needed more salt,” he muttered, and started browsing through the list again. “Anyways, it was a funny memory, is all…” He pursed his lips and steadfastly ignored the bizarre look he was getting from the Alpha, in favor of thinking over meals.

“I think a plain salad with dressing choices would be fine,” he murmured, tilting his head. “I’m feeling a little lazy in that area. And a baked potato with choice of toppings, too… I’ll put some effort into dessert, though… A Lady Baltimore Cake would work nicely, with some homemade vanilla ice cream as a side… Yeah, that’ll do it.” He nodded firmly, flashed a grin at Derek, and began puttering around the kitchen, getting out all the required ingredients for the Curried Spareribs first. He’d do the cake after that, and then the potatoes, and then do the salad last. He _did_ have a good four hours, after all.

He got out two thirteen-by-nine-by-two pans, covered them in foil and sprayed them with Pam, before setting the six Spareribs in, pleased he wouldn’t have to wait for them to thaw. He set the over for three-hundred-fifty degrees and then covered the ribs in foil tightly, and waited for the Pre-Heat beeper to go off. When it finally did, he slid the meat into the oven (Okay, and he’ll admit his mind jumped to perverted thoughts of putting meat in ovens… But then it went to _bread_ in that oven, and having to wake up at, like, two-thirty in the morning on a school- or work-night and having to take care of said loaf, and its safe to say he sent his thoughts away to less-traumatizing thoughts. He had _enough_ children to take care of at the moment, thank you!). He then set the timer for an hour-and-a-half and then quickly tossed the required amount of brown sugar, mustard, vinegar, water, curry powder, and garlic powder into a saucepan and stirred it slowly for three minutes, before pouring it all into a bowl and setting it in the fridge (which was thankfully fully operational, having been on for the last two days), and reminded himself to microwave it when the time came. 

That all done, he turned with the vague thought of maybe starting early on the Lady Baltimore Cake, or the salad, but stopped when he noticed something. Derek was putting what remained of the groceries away, but whenever he lowered his arms, he would, unconsciously it seemed, roll his shoulders, as if they ached. Stiles frowned and glanced at the clock, then the timer, mind bouncing from one thought to another before an idea popped forth like a squirrel on speed, and he moved towards the cabinet beside the oven, opening it and pulling out a very large (and _very_ expensive) bottle of pomegranate oil. It was rarely used, but the likelihood of ever seeing it at their towns store again in the near future had been slim-to-improbable, so he had managed to puppy-dog-eye Derek into buying three bottles of the stuff…

Hey, he was buying a bit of everything _anyways_! Kinda like one of those weird hillbilly billionaire shows Stiles Dad saw sometimes, or something, only Derek bought _useful_ stuff… Well, useful to the _Pack_ , and to _Stiles_ and, hey, hold up, was that _chocolate_ he just put in the _cabinet?!_ Jesus, Scott’ll have that sniffed out five minutes flat! What was he thinking, with his buying of chocolaty goodness and hiding it in the _cabinet?_

But, no, wait, what was he doing again? 

…Oh! He remembered now!

“Derek, stop that for a bit and come in here,” he called as he headed for the large, empty space of the living room, where a thick quilt Allison had given Derek as a Home Warming Gift was spread out on the polished wood floor. Derek loomed up behind him and he turned and put his hands on his hips, trying to look as stern as he could under the unamused glower of the Alpha.

“Shirt off,” he said firmly; Derek gave him a hard look, glower deepening. “You’ve messed up a muscle or something in your back. I’m going to give you a massage to put it to rights. So: Shirt. Off. And lay down on your stomach on the floor, will you?” He just stood there, staring at Stiles, and Stiles made and annoyed huff and crossed his arms, lifting an eyebrow. “Do it or no dessert for you, Sourwolf,” he threatened…

And squeaked when he suddenly found himself with a faceful of Alpha-shirt. Yanking it away and tossing it on the floor, he turned to glower at the older man, who was stretched out on the floor, arms crossed lazily under his chin, and huffed irritably. Carefully, he knelt down, a knee on either side of Derek’s hip, holding him up, and opened the bottle of pomegranate oil, ignoring the way Derek took a deep breath and then growled at him.

“It’s good for sore muscles,” he told the Wolf, who just growled at him, and he rolled his eyes. “Oh, deal with it, I could have gone and gotten a girly lotion from Lydia and used that. I _still_ could do that. Your choice, Sourwolf.” The growl slowly subsided, and Derek huffed, and Stiles grinned cheerfully, just _knowing_ that the Werewolf was glaring holes at the floor a few feet in front of him. “Pomegranate it is, then!” He poured some into his hand, humming happily at the smell, before setting the bottle carefully to the side and rubbing his hands slowly together to warm the oil a bit. After a few moments, he set his hands against the middle of Derek’s back, and got to work, kneading and rolling his hands into the knots he found in the muscles firmly and steadily.

It took thirty minutes, and his hands were weak and starting to cramp themselves, before he was satisfied with his work enough to stop. He got a sleepy growl of protest, and smiled slightly, stroking a hand down the half-asleep Alpha’s back gently.

“I’m going to go finished getting some things ready for dinner, Alpha,” he murmured soothingly, using Derek’s title affectionately as he brushed his oil-soft-and-scented hands over the relaxed mans hair. “You go ahead and rest. The rest of the Pack won’t be here for a long while yet.” Derek grunted and stretched out in a very cat-like way, which made Stiles grin because, hello, _Werewolf_ , but the boy picked up the bottle of oil, now a third lighter, and carried it back into the kitchen. He washed his hands as best he could, and got to work on the Lady Baltimore Cake, mixing up the batter easily, carefully mixing in the orange flavoring with a soft hum. Once it was done, he poured it all into three well-oiled cake pans and set them into the fridge with plastic wrap over the tops, to keep them chilled. Bored now, and with thirty minutes to go, he went ahead and made the salad, chopping up a zucchini, grating some carrots, and adding cherry tomatoes that he cut in half, as well as spinach leaves and thin slices of radish. 

All that, with the lettuce, well mixed, he put in the fridge as well, and then took out the ‘ribs dressing and popped it in the microwave for a minute to get hot, just as the timer was about to go off. He stopped it before it could, and pulled out the meat, sighing softly at the smell, and carefully removed the outer covering of foil. He used a cooking brush and some tongs, and lathered both sides of every piece, and then tucked it back into the oven for another thirty-five minutes. Now with nothing left to do, he made some more Two-Minute Fudge, popping it into the freezer when it was done in the microwave, and then made the fruit-and-nut-filling for the layers of the Lady Baltimore Cake, as well as getting the Boiled Icing ready to make… 

He again aborted the alarm before it could go off, and quietly re-covered the ribs with the foil from before, and then changed the ovens temperature to three-hundred-seventy-five, waited five minutes for it to change, and then took the cake pans from the fridge. He remembered to pull off the plastic wrap before he slid the three pans in, and set the timer for thirty-five minutes again. Again, with nothing left to do, he decided to make Aam Lhassi finally, and got out the food processor with an apologetic wince Derek couldn’t see. He diced up some mango, poured some cold orange juice, and tapped in a few tablespoons of clear honey into the processor. He blended it for exactly one-and-a-half minutes. He scooped it out into a bowl carefully. Then, he added the milk and, as a spur-of-the-moment, totally him improvisation, added about a quarter of a cup of cream in as well. He then blended it until it was all frothy and had expanded. Once that was done, he poured the mango/honey/orange juice puree back into the processor, and blended for about a minute. That done, he poured the drink mix into a pitcher and covered the top with plastic wrap before putting it in the fridge.

Once that was done, it was time to stop the timer from going off, and take out the cake pans, and he was rather pleased with himself how long he drew out making the Aam Lhassi… He set the cakes back to finish cooking through and to cool, and got the fruit-and-nut-filling out of the fridge, and mixed up the icing to drop into a pan for a quick boil. While that was doing its thing, he got out a large, glass plate for the cake, and carefully placed the bottom piece in the middle, though it was still a bit too hot. He cleaned up a bit, wiping countertops and such free of crumbs and small spills, until ten minutes had passed, before he returned to check on the cake. Sufficiently cooled, he noticed, so he quickly and neatly lathered it with a thick, even layer of the filling, and then added the middle piece, before doing the same to it, and finally adding the top piece. He then took the boiled icing, which had cooled enough it wouldn’t damage the cake, and poured it carefully over it. Once that was done, he got out a large, glass dome-lid and carefully set it over the top of the cake, and put it in the fridge. Finally, he got to preparing the potatoes, cleaning them and jabbing them, before wrapping them in foil and tossing them in the oven for a while and setting the timer to remind him to flip them occasionally.

Sighing, feeling a little drained, he padded out of the kitchen and back to the living room, and let a smile curve his lips as he saw that Derek was still sprawled out on the floor, sleeping. Carefully, Stiles settled down on the floor next to him, and leaned beck, wincing as his back popped when he straightened. He folded his arms behind his head and stared up at the ceiling for a while, eyes half-closed, until Derek grunted and hit him in the side with a hand,

“What?” Stiles asked, startled; Derek glowered at him tiredly.

“You’re a brat,” he growled; Stiles blinked, and then huffed, insulted.

“Well then!” He said, crossing his arms over his chest and looking up at the ceiling again, lips pursed. “See if I ever give _you_ a back rub again!” Derek growled.

“I _reek_ ,” he snarled; Stiles gave him a disbelieving look, and then sniffed. Well, sure, he smelled pretty strongly of pomegranate, but that wasn’t _that_ bad of a smell, was it?

“It’s an improvement,” he snipped back; Derek just moved, already irritated, and Stiles suddenly found himself pinned, the Alpha’s clawed hands digging in on either side of his head and a deep warning growl rumbling through the air like thunder.

Stiles is the Wolf Whisperer, though, and acted accordingly, because no matter _how_ stupid his diarrhea-mouth sometimes made him, his mind and body knew better. His arms fell, hands arching up to land limply on his shoulders, and his head fell to the side, arching, offering as much of his neck as he could, and his mouth _shut_ because that’s what got him _into this mess_ , and his eyes dropped down, averted, offering no challenge to the red orbs glowering down at him. Fangs prickled against the thin, fragile skin of his throat and, sure, his heart beat faster, but he didn’t so much as _twitch_ , not even when Derek growled deeply above him and those _teeth_ rattled with it. He only replied with a low whine, deep in the back of his throat, and the teeth were removed, replaced with a tongue, which lapped at his skin for a few moments, before Derek pulled away entirely with a huff, no longer wolfed-out, and calm again, if still a little irritated.

“I’m going to go shower,” he grunted, and Stiles nodded simply, watching him as he carefully sat up, cautious. Derek shot him a narrow-eyed look, huffed again, and padded out on bare feet. Once he was out of the room, _then,_ and _only_ then _,_ did Stiles get to his feet. He rubbed the spit off his neck with his shoulder, and sighed, shaking his head. He should _know_ better by now, _honestly_. Padding into the kitchen, he flipped the potatoes as the timer only had about two minutes left anyways, and then went about cleaning the rest of the kitchen, including dishes. He even swept and re-organized the pantry and cabinets and _didn’t_ touch the chocolate (though he still didn’t expect for it to last long. Jackson may have the Fear of God in him when it comes to the Alpha, but Scott started off without a Pack and, well, his Alpha-Daddy-Issues are weird). 

He’d just taken the potatoes out and left them sitting, still wrapped, in a casserole dish when Derek padded in, still shirtless but damp from his shower. He didn’t smell so strongly of the oil any more, at least to Stiles human nose, so that was good, right? Uh oh, the dark look says not. Okay, time for more Wolf Whispering…

Stiles slipped off his mitts and hesitantly slunk over to the Alpha, who paused to watch him, eyes narrowed and ringed in that bright, glow-in-the-dark, lava-red. Once Stiles got close enough, he rose up on tiptoes and carefully nuzzled his nose against the underside of Derek’s jaw, eyes averted, before placing a kiss there.

“I’m sorry, Alpha,” he said meekly; Derek was silent for a moment as Stiles pulled away and lowered his head, tilted to the side so that his neck was in view, and played with the hem of his shirt. Finally, one of Derek’s hands rose and clasped the back of Stiles neck gently but firmly, thumb stroking, and a low, soothing rumble of a growl echoed through the Werewolf’s chest, making Stiles give a silent exhale of relief. 

“You were helping,” Derek told him calmly. “And it worked. I’ll just need to remember to pick up some unscented oil in case it’s needed in the future.” Stiles nodded slightly, and pressed his neck back into the hand, making a soft sound as the heat radiating from it relaxed some of _his_ tense muscles.

“…I made fudge,” he offered hesitantly, peeking up at the larger man. “I had extra time. Want a piece?” Derek’s lip twitched up at the corner and he inclined his head, so Stiles slipped out from under his hand and all but skipped over to the freezer to pull the tray of fudge out, checking to make sure it was done enough, before getting a knife and cutting it into thirty-six neat pieces, and two out, one for himself and one for Derek. 

They finished their pieces, and Stiles put the rest on a plate and covered it in plastic wrap before putting it in the fridge. Not five minutes later, Derek’s head lifted and turned towards the front of the house, and it was all Stiles could do not to say _What is it boy? What is it?_ And in one of those frou-frou-baby-voices… It was safe to assume that Derek would eviscerate him.

Slowly.

With his _teeth_.

His _human_ _teeth_.

Anyways, a few moments later, Scott and Allison entered, Scott loudly cheering about the smell of food.

“Stiles must be here!” He exclaimed, and bounded to a stop just at the kitchen door, grinning and bouncing in place like a puppy, sniffing at the air. Stiles couldn’t help but laugh at his friend.

“Dude, chill!” He said, grinning. “I’m not giving you my Adderoll…” He paused, blinking. “Would that even work on a Werewolf? You guys have the, like, uber metabolism of doom, and the predatory focus. What if your brain melts? What would that look like, anyways? A brain melting? Well, actually, never mind, it wouldn’t look like _anything_ because you wouldn’t _see_ it was melting until it was _leaking out your face-!”_

“Shut up!” Derek barked; Stiles shut up, sending the irritated Alpha a sheepish, apologetic look. Scott looked startled; Allison was glancing between the two of them. Before she could say anything, though, Jackson, Lydia, and Danny all arrived, the boys bickering good-naturedly about something.

“Damn something smells good,” Danny said, head popping into the kitchen, eyes bright as he grinned. “All finished already, Stiles?” he asked; Stiles grinned and bobbed his head while shrugging his shoulders.

“Dude, you guys took _forever_ ,” he said; Danny and Allison laughed, Scott grinned, Lydia smirked, and Jackson huffed. Stiles gestured them all in and they carried the food outside, where they set everything up on the large picnic table that was there. He, again, made Derek his plate first, and made a plate set aside for his dad, which he just sat in the middle of the table for the time being. He then gave his signature, cursory glance over everything, then everyone, and smiled.

“Well?” He asked; they all dug in. It was relaxing, and nice, to be outside eating. Immediately after finishing, Scott, Jackson, and Danny were playing a bit of lacrosse, and Allison and Lydia were carrying the dirty dishes in while Derek took the remaining food, and Stiles carried his Dad’s plate. Lydia carried out the cake, and Allison grabbed some paper plates and plastic forks. It was only as he was cutting the first slice for Derek that Stiles realized he’d forgotten to make the ice cream. He frowned, and then tilted his head.

“Hey, Danny,” he called; the boy looked over. “Could you go grab the pitcher out of the fridge, and a stack of plastic cups, too? Thank you,” he finished, beaming, as the other teen saluted and trotted into the house. “I made Aam Lhassi and totally forgot to make vanilla ice cream,” Stiles told Derek with an embarrassed grin. “But this’ll work, too!” He chirruped, and beamed at the taller boy when Danny handed him the pitcher and set the cups on the table. “Awesome, thanks dude!” Danny bobbed his head (well, more _inclined_ because he wasn’t as uncoordinated as Stiles and didn’t _bob_ , but, yeah, you get the point…). After he poured the drink into cups for everybody, he finished handing out cake, saving a bit of both the drink and the cake for his Dad to snack on either the next day or that night, depending.

When desert was finished, Jackson and Scott were volunteered to clean, and they did grudgingly, snapping and snarking at each other while doing so, until, finally, everything was done. Stiles reclined in the thick, green grass, looking up at the clouds and sky, and Lydia laid down with her head on his stomach, and Danny laid down on his side, feet near Stiles head, his own head pillowed by an arm. As soon as the cleaning was all done, the others joined them, with Scott and Allison cuddling nearby, and Jackson flopping down so that his head rested on Danny’s hip. Derek just sat in the grass, leaning back on his arms, watching them all with half-lidded, satisfied eyes, and Stiles smiled, content.

This was Pack.


	4. Comfort Foods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When panic sets in, Stiles does what he can to comfort his Packmates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random Plunny I decided to feed. Thank you for all the feedback on my previous drabbles!

**Comfort Foods**

**Summary:**  When panic sets in, Stiles does what he can to comfort his Packmates.

**CHAPTER BEGINS**

“ _Something’s happened,”_ was the first thing Stiles heard from Derek when he answered his phone. The boy blinked, and stilled, worry creasing his brow.

“What?” He asked.

“ _Danny’s been hurt,”_ The Alpha said, voice rumbling over the phones tiny speakers, and Stiles just _knew_ he was wolfed out. _“Get over here. Now.”_ And then there was nothing, because Derek had hung up. Stiles slowly lowered his phone, staring at it, and then looked at his computer screen, where the picture of the Pack was…

And he prayed that there wouldn’t be one less wolf on there by the end of the day.

And suddenly, he’s moving, not even bothering to put on _shoes_ before he’s all but tumbling down the stairs and throwing himself into his Jeep, slamming it into reverse and squealing away, towards the Hale House. He dials his Dad quickly, babbles out an explanation, and thanks all that’s _holy_ he’d convinced Derek to let his Dad in on the big secret-y wolf thing two weeks ago because his Dad told him he’d spread the word that Stiles was on his way to pick up a drunk friend who was talking “suicide” and that he’d drop by within an hour to check on him himself. Jesus _Christ_ , but he loved his Dad.

He honestly didn’t know how he made it without crashing. He couldn’t remember anything, really, beyond the thunder of his own heart, the blur of the trees out of the corner of his eyes, and the insistent, steady, panic-induced mental babbling that consisted mostly of prayers to God (and whoever looked after Werewolf Packs, just in case it was a delegated duty…). Suddenly, though, he was slamming on the brakes, his baby skidding and flinging dirt and rocks and foliage, and he’s out of the car and running up to the house without another though, ignoring the mud that squishes between his toes as he all but slams _into_ the door, scrambling at the knob before it’s opening and he’s inside and being tackle-hugged by a whimpering, wolfed-out Jackson, who’s _covered in blood_ , and his mind shifts gears sharply and suddenly and almost painfully.

“Shh, shh,” he pants, curling his arms around the other boy, as they curl around each other on the ground, Jackson snuffling into his neck, sobbing and keening and whimpering, terrified. “Shh, Jacks, Shh.” He croons, and it _is_ a croon, a sound that’s low in his throat and out of his mouth in a low, wolfy fashion, and he’s gone Wolf Whisperer but he doesn’t _care_ because one of his self-appointed “Cubs” _needs_ him, and Derek was probably with Danny saving his _life_ \- “Shush, Jacks, it’s going to be okay, I’ve got you.” He continues on that path. Murmuring and crooning and nuzzling and _petting_ and rocking the Omega gently, back and forth, until Jackson is breathing deeply, dozing and exhausted on his shoulder. Lydia had joined them at some point, curling against them, wolfed out and purple-eyed, and Stiles had an arm around her as well, and they were just sitting there in the middle of the doorway, with him whispering and crooning and humming a lullaby his Mom used to sing to him when he was little and had nightmares. There’s a sound behind him, and he shifts his head, nuzzling his cheek against Jackson’s hair, and Scott is standing there, sides heaving, wolfed out in the doorway, and Stiles holds out a hand for him and croons soothing as his friend whimpers and buries his face against his side as Lydia and the dozing Jackson instinctively shift to make room. 

Ten minutes later, Jackson is fast asleep, and Allison is in the doorway, her Dad following her up, and Stiles gives the girl a quiet, questioning look, before she’s kneeling down and stroking Scott’s head gently and curling under his arm. Chris Argent takes in the scene, purses his lips, and then Stiles is giving him a stern look and shooting his eyes towards the door, and the Hunter is nodding and leaving, closing said door behind him. Minutes later, the teen can just make out the sound of a car pulling away. Not even two minutes after that, Derek, shirtless and wolfy, stalked down the stairs and looked them over, sniffing and eying them with intense scrutiny. Stiles shot him a concerned look, but continued to hum and croon softly as Jackson murmured in his sleep and nuzzled closer. Finally, Derek moved, and carefully scooped the Omega up, making Lydia and Scott lift their heads, glowing eyes following his movements. But he just carried the boy into the living room, where he laid Jackson down on one of the air mattresses that populated the room from the occasional Pack-Slumber-Parties, along with a single king-sized mattress that was where Derek slept, sometimes in a pile with the rest of the Pack, sometimes alone.

“Come on, you two,” the boy finally murmured, and nudged the two still-wolfy-teens to their feet, Scott clinging to Allison with one arm, and clinging to Stiles shirt with the other, like a frightened child clinging to his parents pant leg. Lydia is leaning against Scott’s free side and doing the same, and Stiles is still crooning soothingly, murmuring soothing words as he carefully led them into the living room. He didn’t hesitate to turn and push them onto Derek’s mattress, and then turn a look on the Alpha, who moved Jackson over to join them without so much as a growl. Stiles cooed softly when the Omega whined in his sleep, still wolfed out, and carefully stripped his blood-soaked shirt off of him, throwing it across the room in a bit of violence that left him a little satisfied. He turned back and slipped down to cuddle the boy close, and Lydia and Scott curled around and on him, and Allison did the same. Derek watched them for a few moments, before he bent down to stroke a hand down Jackson’s flank, across Lydia’s back, Scott's shoulder and Allison’s thigh, and finally across Stiles head. Stiles just crooned and nuzzled his Packmates, and settled in as the Alpha left the room.

Two hours of sitting there being a personal teddy-bear/music box for his Packmates, and they were finally all fast asleep, exhausted. Even Allison, curled half-under Scott, half-under Lydia, with just her head peaking out over her boyfriends shoulder. Stiles took a deep, slow breath, and carefully wriggled out from under Jackson, who whined, rolled over, and was latched onto by a lightly snoring Lydia, who snuffled into his shoulder in what had to be the most adorably puppyish act Stiles had seen her pull yet. Carefully, the teen shucked his shirt off and tossed it over to join Jackson’s, because the fact that it had contact-blood on it disturbed him something awful. He pulled out his phone and texted his Dad that he was fine, everything was fine, nothing to worry about, even as he crept up the stairs and started checking rooms, trying to see if that was _true_.

He found Derek and Danny in what would have been the Master Bedroom, curled up on a mattress on the floor, and Danny was covered in blood from head-to-toe…

There were no wounds, though.

Derek lifted his head, red eyes bright and glowing, and rumbled at him wordlessly. Stiles let out a soft croon, checked that Danny was, indeed, breathing, before nodding towards the Alpha and quietly closing the door. He took a few steps away, turned, pressed his back against the wall, and slid to the ground, shuddering as he buried his face in his knees, the relief that Danny was still _alive_ nearly overwhelming him. He took a deep, shuddering breath, scrubbed at his face, and determinedly got to his feet. He was calm, collect; he was the friggin _poster boy_ of cool…

Okay, he so totally wasn’t, with his knees feeling like jelly and his head feeling like it was filled with Lead, and feeling like he’s going to be _sick_ all over the _floor_ … But, he’s better, now, because he feels that way because Danny’s _alive_. Stiles took deep, steady breaths as he goes downstairs and into the kitchen, and sets about making dinner.

He went for simple, comforting. Homemade chicken noodle soup with dumplings, grilled cheese sandwiches, and chocolate chip cookies for dessert. All easy to make, all something to distract him, all of it done too soon. So, he put the food away when he was finished, and climbed back into the Puppy Pile, and fell asleep soon after, with Jackson once more rolling over on top of him. His sleep was fractured: a mix of nightmares about his Mom and half-awake times spent soothing his Cubs/Packmates groggily, or waking whenever Derek did his check-up/touch-thing every few hours, still smelling faintly of blood.

He woke early to a pounding head, aching back, and growling stomach, and crawled from the bed with a huge yawn. The sound of a shower going on upstairs told him that, either Derek was washing the blood off of himself, or Danny was up and about. He was betting on Derek, but hoping for Danny. Yawning, trying to pop his back and whimpering softly when all that happened is that it ached more; he shuffled into the kitchen and started the fixings for pancakes, waffles, and coffee. Breakfast was the only time he cooked when there were no restrictions on who was allowed in the kitchen, as even Stiles didn’t expect anyone to remember to ask first when they were part-Zombie…

Heh.

Werewolf-Zombies.

Ohmygod, a Werewolf-Zombie Apocalypse, complete with Hunters and, and, bad music and outfits and that one hot Survivor that you just _know_ is going to end up turned or _worse_ by the end of it, and-!

“G’mornin’,” Scott slurred, stumbling into the kitchen, and Stiles did _not_ squeal. He yelped. It was a very manly yelp. An _uber_ manly yelp. A Yelp of Manliness. Yep.

…Scott’s giving him a weird look, now, so he lifted his chin, and dumped a plate of waffles and pancakes in front of the teenager, huffing.

“Eat,” he ordered, and Scott snatched the syrup from the table, _drowned_ his meal in a gross amount, and began to shovel the food into his face. Stiles wrinkled his nose and smacked him on the head with the wooden spoon he habitually carried in his pocket whenever he was in the kitchen…for reasons he couldn’t even begin to imagine. Hell, he didn’t even _use_ the damn thing, except to hit people, now-a-days. Scott’s yelp was loud in the morning and Stiles gave him a stern look.

“Manners!” He said sternly; Scott sulked, and started eating again, much slower than before. Stiles nodded with a satisfied look and went back to cooking. He was so glad it was a Saturday…

Lydia stumbled in, hair rumpled, shirt showing a (now disturbing) amount of cleavage (and when did it become disturbing? At the beginning of the year, he would have been having a mental nosebleed like some anime character or something. Now, he wanted to cover her in a blanket and glower at anyone for looking at her like that… Weird Mommy!Instincts…). She attacked a cup of coffee, black with an absurd amount of sugar, like it was the only thing worth living for, and only after she’d had _three cups_ did she look awake enough to even notice the plate of waffles Stiles sat in front of her (she wasn’t a fan of pancakes, go figure.). 

Allison came in next, yawning and smiling sweetly as Stiles handed her a plate of pancakes, which she preferred, before she sat next to Scott and snuggled in. The sound of the shower upstairs turned off, just as Jackson stumbled in and fell against Stiles, wolfed out and grumbling, nuzzling against his neck sleepily. Stiles hummed softly, using one hand to drag his fingers through the other boys fur and hair while the other flipped pancakes and maneuvered the waffle-maker. Finally, Jackson shifted back to his human face, yawned hugely, snagged a cup of coffee and a plate of pancakes and waffles, licked Stiles cheek, and sat down at the table to sleepily consume it all. Stiles shook his head, and wondered if he’d have to get used to being randomly glomped by the jock until the traumatization went away…

Derek was in the doorway, and, standing next to him, was Danny, blinking rapidly and looking like he was trying not to sneeze, hair wet and wearing some of Derek’s clothes. Stiles flipped the finished pancake out of the skillet and moved over to them, pulling the boy directly into his arms and crooning lowly at him, getting a startled whine and an instinctive nuzzle to his neck. He breathed in the scent of Derek’s shampoo in Danny’s hair, closed his eyes, and felt something in his chest loosen even more. After a few moments, he pulled back, looked the boy over critically, and then pulled him into the room and pushed him towards the table, where Jackson pulled his friend close, cuddled him, and nuzzled their cheeks together with a look of stark relief on his face.

And it was as Stiles was watching this, that he realized that Jackson was shirtless, and that reminded him of the bloody shirt in the living room, and _that_ reminded him that _he_ was shirtless, and he needed to get _his_ bloody shirt too… Shrugging, he shot a gentle look up at the Alpha, made him a plate and a large mug of black coffee, and handed them to Derek, who grunted tiredly and started eating.

“Did you get any sleep last night?” the boy asked with sympathy as his back and temples ached. Being a wolfy-teddy-bear did _so_ not agree with his spine…

“A bit,” the Alpha grunted around a mouthful of waffle. “You?” Stiles smiled slightly.

“About the same.” He said, shrugging. “Lunch is made, I made it last night. Chicken noodle soup with dumplings, and grilled cheese sandwiches. There are chocolate-chip cookies for dessert.” Scott gave a half-hearted whoop and Stiles gave him a look, making him slump and return to his breakfast. “We’ll have to microwave it all, but it’ll still be good.”

“Everything you make is good, Stiles,” Lydia said sleepily, humming as she sipped her fourth (and final) cup of coffee, polishing off her waffles. The rest of the pack agreed, Danny smiling over at him as he leaned his head against his best friend. Stiles flashed a bright, beaming smile at them, and told them to eat their food, dishing out much smaller seconds to those who wanted it, and then finally getting himself a plate. He sat down, wincing as his back protested stifling a groan, and gave Derek a tired half-smile when the Alpha placed a large hand on the back of his neck, frowning slightly. Scott left about fifteen minutes later, taking Allison home on his way to the Vets, as he was needed there most Saturday mornings. Danny and Jackson left soon after to go and let Danny’s parents know that, no, he hadn’t died (no matter how close he’d gotten) and so Jackson could sneak home and get some clothes. Lydia left with them so she could have a ride, kissing Stiles on the cheek as she left and thanking him for breakfast, which he accepted with a soft smile before shooing her out. When they were alone, Stiles sighed and slumped back, groaning as he tried to pop his back and, again, failed, whining lightly. Derek’s hands landed on his shoulders, rubbing gentle, firm circles, making the teen moan and arch forward as the Alpha moved the rubbing down, hitting tensed, painfully knotted muscles and working at them until they relaxed. After a little bit, Stiles shook himself, smiled up at Derek, and got to his feet. The two of them worked in silence, cleaning up all of the breakfast mess together and generally just relaxing in the others presence.

“It was a rogue Wolf,” Derek finally rumbled; Stiles shot him a look from the side of his eye as he put away a clean plate. “Jackson and Danny were messing around in the woods near here, and a rogue attacked them. It, _he_ , slashed Jackson’s stomach open and tossed him aside, and tore open Danny’s chest, broke his arm. Jackson managed to howl for me before he attacked the rogue and got a broken jaw and nearly lost an eye for his troubles. I got there in time to kill the bastard before he could sink his fangs into Jackson’s throat,” he snarled, eyes glowing bright, hellfire red, and Stiles put down his drying rag in order to slide over and press against the Alpha’s side, letting out a low, comforting croon. After taking a few, deep breaths, Derek continued, eyes back to moss green, but still ringed in red. “The only thing I could do for Danny, to keep him alive, was bite him myself, Turn him.” He focused his eyes on Stiles, who rubbed his cheek against the larger mans shoulder in a wolfish, comforting gesture. “It was all I could do,” he tried to explain, and Stiles shushed him, put the dirty dishes back in the sink, and pushed the Alpha towards the living room.

“We need sleep,” he announced quietly, and yawned, smiling up at the Alpha gently. “All Mommy and Daddy wolves have to keep their strength up, after all,” he joked; Derek snorted and rolled his eyes, a fine tension leaving his shoulders as he allowed himself to be maneuvered onto the large mattress that, even Stiles could tell, smelled strongly of the Pack. “Sleep, Sourwolf,” Stiles ordered, already feeling his eyelids get heavy, lack of sleep and relaxed muscles lulling him. Derek snuffled against his neck, licked his check, and then settled next to him, radiating enough heat that it didn’t even occur to the teen to reach for the nearby blanket. 

Stiles closed his eyes, sighed, and fell asleep, safe in the knowledge that his Pack was safe again, at least, for the time being…

And he should really get home soon to pick up his shoes.


	5. Family Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Pack grows, and so do Stiles responsibilities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone asked if I’d put the other wolves in here (i.e. Isaac, Boyd, etcetera, etcetera) so that’s what this is for.

**Family Dinner**

**Summary:** The Pack grows, and so do Stiles responsibilities.

**CHAPTER BEGINS**

When Stiles meets the newest member of the Pack, he can’t say he’s very impressed. Erica is a bitch (and he’s not just saying that because she’s a female Werewolf). She constantly challenges Lydia for the title of Alpha Female, flirts with Scott in front of Allison, _threatens_ Allison, insults Jackson because he’s an Omega, is homophobic towards Danny, and mocks Stiles constantly. But, she only does it whenever Derek isn’t around to hear her, and when he _is_ , she’s snarky, bitchy, but doesn’t push her luck, and turns all her flirtation on the Alpha.

It takes her two weeks to understand why she doesn’t get dessert at dinner, and she _hates it_ when Stiles makes her stand in the corner, but she can’t retaliate, because Derek stands by Stiles punishments, especially when the boy explains the reasons for them. Besides, Scott, Jackson, and Allison end up in corners just as often, usually when she’s in them, because the rule “You Will Not Taunt Your Packmates When They’re Being Punished” is one that Stiles holds to almost as sternly as the “Do Not Enter The Kitchen Without Permission” rule. After the second week, she’s learnt her lesson, at least a bit.

When Stiles meets the _next_ new Wolf… 

He has to restrain the urge to bundle the boy up in blankets and give him cookies and coo and croon at him while cuddling him. He was like a scared little rabbit or something. Isaac made the second Omega of the Pack, and even _Jackson_ took him under his wing. Erica took a surprisingly protective role to the Cub, and Stiles settled back into Mommy-Mode, spending quite a few nights at the Hale House, especially since the nightmares about Isaac’s father (may he burn in the lowest pit of Hell) kept the new Wolf up at night, shifted and whimpering, curled around the humans body as he crooned and stroked those soft curls…

When Derek Turned Boyd, Stiles started to get a little worried, but accepted the teen into the Pack with open arms all the same. Boyd was a Beta, like Erica, Danny, and Scott, and had a few issues with anger at first, threw a few snarling-tantrums. Stiles had a black eye from one such tantrum, which had immediately ended as soon as he’d been hit, with Boyd snapping into wolf form and collapsing on the floor next to him, whimpering and keening and licking at his face in apology… Weird, but hey, he was Mommy Wolf, so he just wrapped his arms around the boy and crooned and hushed him and calmed him down. Boyd was very careful around him and Allison from then on, and the rest of the Pack, especially Derek, rarely let him and the two humans get alone. But, after a month, it was better. Not perfect, but definitely better.

Stiles hummed as he finished the last of the large steaks in the skillet, flipping it out onto the full plate easily and walking over to set it on the table. Just as he turned back toward the oven, the timer went off, and he smiled, padding forward to pull on his trusty purple mitts (brought over from his house), before he pulled out the Potatoes and Wild Mushrooms Boulanger he’d made to go with the steaks. He sniffed them, sighing happily, smiling with pleasure before he carried the two cake pans of Boulanger over to the table and set them on the waiting plates. No need to burn the tablecloth, after all…

“Hey Stiles?” Scott called from the living room, where the entire Pack was watching _VanHelsing_.

“Yes?” He called back as he checked the large pot of corn-on-the-cob sitting on the stove simmering.

“What’s up with the whole Dracula calling VanHelsing Gabriel?” Stiles hummed.

“He’s the Left Hand of God, an Angel whose memory has been wiped and, supposedly, turned into a human,” he said distractedly as he swiftly placed his Imitation Black Forest dessert into the oven for the time called for on the side of the Devils Food Cake box. He got to work on making the icing.

“Then how does he know Dracula?” Scott asked, confused.

“He killed Dracula, cut off his finger, and took his signet ring when he was Gabriel,” Stiles said idly, measuring out six tablespoons of milk into the now-boiling pot of what had been a stick of margarine. “I think he was punished with the loss of his memory and such, because his actions _created_ Dracula or something. Honestly, they were so totally having sex, which is why Dracula’s such a creeper on VanHelsing’s chick, because he’s _jealous_.” There was silence.

“That actually makes a lot of sense,” Jackson offered.

“Told you he was after Helsing,” Erica sniffed.

“Helsing is a totally different show, Erica,” Stiles called. 

“Whatever,” she said, and Stiles could just see her snuggling up against Derek and smiling up at him. He wrinkled his nose and dumped the boiling mix onto the pound of confectioners sugar after adding four tablespoons of cocoa, his eyes narrowed as he stirred it carefully until smooth. When the timer went off he pulled the cake out and immediately poured the warm icing over the hot dessert, before sitting back and waiting for it to cool, occasionally testing the icing and seeing if it was firm yet. Once it was, he cleaned up (well, he put all the dirty dishes in the sink for delegation duty, and put away his ingredients) and sighed.

“Dinners done,” he called, the Pack chatted with each other, talking about the movie (which had had the great timing of ending just seconds before Stiles called), and trotted into the room. Stiles made up a plate for Derek, flashing him a smile when the Alpha rubbed the back of his neck, before settling and doing his usual routine.

“Well?” He asked; dinner commenced. Stiles waited patiently until everyone had their food, made his plate, and sat down to eat with a content hum. It was Friday, which meant Pack Night if everyone could make it. Isaac sat next to him, nibbling uncertainly at first, but then getting more enthusiastic when Stiles sent him a gentle smile. Jackson sat on his other side; quickly eating a small helping of the plain salad Stiles had set out, before jumping on the steak as if he was starving. Danny, sitting next to his friend as always, shook his head with a soft snort, eating with the neat, polite efficiency that was the way he did things. Boyd ate with a single-minded, intense focus that reminded Stiles of Scott whenever he was doing or making something for Allison, or Training. The two were in a silent competition in Training, and Stiles felt like he was the only one worried about what could happen if the two teens stopped being quiet about that competition…

Allison ate with smiles shared between bites with Scott, bumping into his shoulder, holding his hand under the table. Scott was the opposite, taking bites between smiles and looking just as blissed out and goofy as he always did when his brain was orbiting around his Alli-Sun. Erica was eating and sending flirty looks towards Derek and narrow-eyed looks at Lydia, who had firmly exercised her right as Alpha Female by claiming the seat next to the Alpha. Lydia ate her food like she did everything: perfectly. It was almost scary, sometimes, but then Stiles remembered how she couldn’t really function in the mornings without almost a whole pot of coffee in her system, and it would make it all right again.

Derek…

Was watching him, plate empty, and Stiles took the last bite of his Boulanger with a small smile, watching him right back as he chewed with purposeful slowness, amused as those moss-green eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly. Smile even bigger, now, Stiles set his fork down and stood, rolling his eyes at the Alpha before moving over to the oven to get the Imitation Black Forest and a knife to cute it with.

“Yeah, dessert!” Scott cheered around a mouthful of food, and Stiles sent him a stern look, making him hastily swallow the food and duck his head.

“Sorry, excuse me,” the Beta said meekly; Stiles nodded calmly, before slicing a slightly-larger-than-average piece for Derek and sliding it onto his plate expertly. He went around the table, setting pieces carefully and smiling warmly when he got thank-you’s (Lydia gave him a kiss on the cheek, as did Allison, and Jackson and Isaac both gave him bright smiles that lit up their entire _faces_ ) as he set a small slice onto his plate, he carried the rest of the cake (only enough for two, maybe three more pieces) back to the oven and set it down, before he returned to the table, sat down, and quietly dug into his cake, smiling all the while as the entire Pack (even cantankerous Erica) made pleased, happy sounds as they ate his cake.

After they finished, Derek designated duties. Isaac and Scott got dish duty; Allison took out the trash (Derek had bought a large dumpster that was picked up by the Beacon Hill’s Trash Company once every two weeks, as opposed to every week). Erica and Jackson got to clean the living room. Lydia, Boyd, and Danny got to bring down the air mattresses and Derek’s Mattress (Deserving of its capital letter) to get the living room ready for bed. He then handed Stiles a broom reluctantly, and took the tablecloth himself to the laundry room, making the boy smile with amusement. As he swept, Stiles felt content, feeling and hearing the Pack moving around.

With the newest members, his Mommy Duties had grown, and not only in the amount of food he was making and laundry he was doing. At his house, he was lucky if he had one night a week where he didn’t wake up with _someone_ in his bed, even Boyd and Erica and _Derek_ making an appearance to snuggle in and snuffle his neck in their sleep, and stumble downstairs at breakfast. He’d gotten tired of texting various parents to let them know where their child was, but accepted it. He was _also_ lucky if he didn’t get a call at four in the morning on school nights, those nights when Erica and Lydia _weren’t_ at his house, to get asked by one of said girls what would look best, or advise about a dream, or if he could just talk to them, or _something_. Allison was guilty of that too, hell, _Jackson_ did it a time or two as well.

And the number of rides he’d had to give to the mall or to work places or to school would seriously be eating into his wallet, if Derek hadn’t insisted on paying for _that_ as well, and his cellphone bills.

None of this was counting the number of times _he_ had had to sneak into peoples houses, to either calm them down from nightmares (which he’d done for Danny, Jackson, Scott, Lydia, Isaac, and, surprisingly, Erica), help them get to sleep (all of the Pack, _including_ Derek and Allison), drop off or pick up some clothes that just _had_ to be cleaned for the next day (Lydia, Erica, and Jackson), or make some type of comfort food, like cookies or something, and need to drop it off (all of the Pack had taken very careful advantage about this, because Stiles had implemented his Contingency Plan of No Dessert After Dinner. The calls he got after midnight needing some form of chocolate, when it would be okay because it would be before _breakfast_ , got so annoying, he’d asked Derek to tell the Pack to back off a bit or _no one_ would get dessert for a month. They backed off. Mostly.).

Then there was nights like these, the Pack Nights. Everyone settled on their air mattress, ready for bed. And all Stiles could do was lay there, waiting for his cellphone to go off, or his window to open, and one of the Pack to crawl into bed beside him. He sighed and stared up at the ceiling, listening to the soft snores, little growls, whines, and whimpers of the Pack, and finally rolled off his bed, bare feet making a soft sound as they hit the ground. He slunk over to Derek’s Mattress, and blinked at the glowing red eyes that watched him move. He paused, whined softly, questioningly, and got a low, soothing growl in return. He immediately crawled onto the bed, carefully feeling his way up until he was curled next to the Alpha, head resting on the other’s arm when he obligingly spread it out for him. The warmth of him settled into Stiles’ _bones_ , and he relaxed with a soft sound deep in his throat, rubbing his cheek against Derek’s arm and closing his eyes with a content sigh, slipping almost immediately into a doze.

He was woken almost ten minutes later, when Isaac whimpered and crawled his way between Stiles and Derek, burying his wolfy face into Stiles neck. Stiles started crooning softly, soothingly, dragging his fingers through those insanely soft curls, and Derek leaned over and nuzzled the Omega’s head with his nose, rumbling softly, comfortingly, until Isaac was asleep, arms wrapped around Stiles tightly and gnawing lightly on the boys collarbone, which would have been so much weirder if he hadn’t had the tendency to gnaw on something _every_ time he fell asleep on Stiles, be it his arm, shoulder, leg, stomach, neck, or _head_. It kind of reminded Stiles of the way some babies chewed on their parents shoulders and stuff when they fell asleep, and it wasn’t like it _hurt_ or anything. He continued to pet Isaac softly, shifting them until the other boy was pressed right up against Derek’s side.

It was just after he’d begun to doze again, that Erica crawled over to curl against his back, her body shivering, her face wet with silent tears, vulnerable. Stiles silently turned onto his back, slipping his now-free arm under her and pulling her close, tilting his head so she, too, could press her face to his neck and breath in his scent. He kissed her forehead and just let his lips rest there quietly as she slipped her hands around his chest to clench in his shirt, and new tears wet his skin.

“Shh, shh,” he murmured gently, and crooned softly to her as she continued to shake and silently cry. “We’ve got you, we’ve got you.” Boyd crawled over just as she was starting to calm, pressing against her neck and whining softly, nuzzling her hair, eyes glowing dark gold in the dark, and Stiles continued to croon until Erica’s breath was deep and slow against him, her clenched hands relaxing until she was just holding him, and Boyd nuzzled in until he fell asleep as well. 

Jackson and Danny crawled into the Puppy Pile next, curling up on Derek’s other side, using his thigh and stomach as a pillow and snuggling close to one another like two puppies. Lydia, purple eyes glowing, stalked all around the bed twice, before curling up on Derek’s legs, head resting on Isaac’s thigh, hand curled around Stiles calf. Scott and Allison stumbled over to sprawl with their heads taking up the remaining space on Derek’s chest, arms around each other, and Derek let out a low, humming rumble, which Stiles replied to with a soft croon. They watched over them for a good hour, before Stiles finally fell asleep.

Being Mommy Wolf to a Pack of eight teenagers was hard. There was drama, dirty laundry, punishments and rewards, chores, and comforting needed at times when all Stiles wanted to do was sleep or be anything _but_ patient. But he would do it, because he knew what it was like, to want to turn to your mother for comfort, and not have her there, for whatever reason, be it because she doesn’t know you’re a Werewolf or because you can’t tell her what the problem is or, in Stiles case, because she’s dead. So, he would be there, for whatever reason they needed him, even Derek, who, let’s face it, was a Daddy Wolf who didn’t need that shotgun sitting out when he met the new boyfriend/girlfriend.

For now, though, surrounded by his Pack, fast asleep under those glowing red eyes, _Stiles_ is the one who feels comforted, and his dreams are quiet as he holds his two most needing Cubs close, and sighs.


	6. Welcome Home Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles finds a Zombie-Wolf in HIS kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a random idea.  
> Changed Peter's resurrection a bit...   
> Enjoy!

 

**Welcome Home Dinner**

**Summary:**  Stiles finds a Zombie-Wolf in _his_  kitchen.

**CHAPTER BEGINS**

Stiles stared blankly.

He closed his eyes and rubbed them firmly.

When he opened his eyes, the image hadn't changed.

He pinched his arm, hard.

Still didn't work.

He stared for a few more minutes, then his eyes narrowed. Slowly, he turned to Derek, watching the Alpha shift his weight ever so slightly.

“Derek,” the boy said, voice deceptively calm. “My Alpha, my lovely, grouchy Sourwolf. Is there a _reason_ for Peter Hale being in _my kitchen_ , instead of, oh, I don't know, a _grave_?” Derek cleared his throat and shifted his eyes away.

“...He was hungry...?” Derek finally said, a little awkwardly, and ended the statement in an almost questioning lilt. Stiles stared at him, unamused, and the Alpha scowled slightly. “He's sane now,” he tried; Stiles stared at him for a few seconds more, shook his head, and stalked into the kitchen.

“Shoo,” he ordered the zombie-wolf... Wait a minute. Zombie. Werewolf. “Oh my god,” he blurted, eyes wide, staring at Peter, who arched an eyebrow at him with a sardonic expression. “It's the apocalypse. How many of you are there? Should we board up the house? Why weren't we aware of this? Do we need silver bullets or will removing the head work? What about–” 

“Stiles,” Derek interrupted from the doorway, careful not to enter. “What the hell are you talking about?” Stiles whirled on him, eyes still huge.

“The Zombie-Werewolf Apocalypse!” He declared; Derek gave him his patented blank-look/Homicidal Mass Murderer look.

“How quaint,” Peter said; Stiles turned, and was distracted by the fact that the supposed-to-be-dead-Wolf was eating a brownie from the plate that had been in the fridge. Stiles' eyes narrowed and he pointed at it.

“Have you eaten anything else beside that brownie, mister?” He demanded; Peter arched an eyebrow.

“No,” he replied, bemused; Stiles huffed, stalked over, and plucked the plate from his hands, giving him a stern look and pointing over to the table.

“Go and sit,” he ordered firmly. “I'll make you a _proper_ lunch, and then freak out. For now, _you_ ,” he turned a hard look on Derek, holding the plate of brownies in a strangely threatening manner. “ _Out of my kitchen._ ” Derek was gone fro the doorway almost before Stiles had finished talking. He huffed, re-covered the plate of brownies, and replaced it in the fridge. He paused to think of what to make for a moment, before deciding on making some Chicken and Creamy Curry Wraps. That decided, he pulled out three packets of boneless chicken breast, before deciding it wouldn't be enough if the rest of the Furry Hoard was to show up, and pulled out the remaining four. He would never be happier over the fact that Derek didn't mind spending a couple hundred dollars a month on groceries. 

Setting those on the stove, Stiles returned to the fridge to grab the bowl of sour cream, the bag of shredded lettuce, a few tomatoes, and the package of white tortilla wraps. Setting those out, he opened the spice cabinet and pulled down the curry powder.

“You're very comfortable in my nephew's kitchen, Stiles,” Peter mused; Stiles stiffened slightly, surprised, having briefly forgotten the man was even there, lost as he was in his nattering thoughts about ingredients and the proper way to make what he planned.

“I'm the cook,” he replied simply, keeping his eyes on his hands as he pulled out a skillet and sprayed it with some cooking spray (PAM, he believed, but didn't really care). “I make all the meals, and this is _my_ domain. No one is allowed in here without explicit permission, with the exception of breakfast, during which anyone can come in at any time.” He paused in the motion of cutting one of the chicken breasts into small cubes, turning slightly and smiling blankly at the Wolf, blade glinting in the light and eyes dark. “I hope you can deal with that rule as long as you're here, Peter.” The Wolf tilted his head, and his lips curled.

“Of course, Stiles,” he replied, and there was that _smile_ , the same from before he died, and Stiles had a hard time believing the Wolf was as sane as Derek believed. He huffed, and returned to cutting the chicken breast. He through the cubes of two of them into the skillet, and set it to the correct temperature to brown the meat and cook it all the way through, before turning to the sour cream and curry, putting four tablespoons of the white sauce into a bowl, before adding two tablespoons of curry powder and stirring thoroughly. It was double the normal amount, as he was making two Wraps at the moment. He put two tortilla's in the microwave for twenty seconds, and finished browning the chicken by the time they were finished. As soon as they were out, he dumped an even amount of chicken into the wraps, before scooping an even amount of the sour cream/curry powder mixture into them. He swiftly chopped up a tomato, and sprinkled some on both, topping it with lettuce. Then, he rolled the two shut, and carried the plate they were on over to the bemused Zombie-Wolf. He set it gently in front of Peter, and then returned to the frige, pulling out the milk and pouring the already-eating Wolf a tall glass, setting it next to him. In silence, he returned the milk and got to cooking more of the Wraps, deciding on two for everyone, which would be easier for him to make. 

“This is very good, Stiles,” Peter complimented with his patented _Creeper Smile_ , and Stiles gave him a nod and small smile. The sound of scrambling feet alerted him to what was most-likely one of the Furry Hoard, and Scott appeared in the doorway, eyes glowing and wolfy. Peter smiled at him, but before he could say anything, Stiles broke their staring contest by stepping in front of Scott and offering him a plate with two Wraps on it.

“Food,” he said firmly; Scott blinked and whined at him, making Stiles croon and drag his fingers through the others hair for a moment, before pointing at the chair furthest from the Zombie-Wolf sitting at the table. “Eat, Scott. Questions later.” Scott leaned forward and licked Stiles cheek, before shuffling over to the table and taking a reluctant seat, wolf-features slipping away. He still eyed Peter with wariness, confusion, and a bit of anger, but he didn't say anything, just ate. Stiles had to do this twice more, once for Allison and again for Lydia. Luckily, the rest of the Pack didn't have such bad history with Peter, and so only reacted out of wary curiosity. Stiles greeted Isaac with a smile and a nuzzle when the Omega cuddled against him, and passed a plate to Erica and Boyd when they entered. Derek padded in once everybody was there and eating, and Stiles passed him his plate, smiling when the Alpha stroked the back of his neck before taking a seat. 

Peter was in what was usually Stiles seat, but he didn't mind, setting his plate off to the side before cleaning up the stove and trash. He listened as Derek explained how Peter was there, about how he had managed to infect Lydia with a portion of his spirit and instruct her on how to resurrect his corpse, and then using that connection to erase he memory of the event. There was an outburst at the fact, and it continued for all of two minutes, before Stiles pulled his large spoon out of its cup on the counter top, and slammed it against a cooking pot, making a loud noise that got all the Wolves attention, all of their eyes glowing brightly, and Allison looking flushed and dark-eyed in her anger.

“That is enough,” he said, face stern as he put his hands on his hips, spoon and pot and all. “There is _no_ shouting in my kicthen. There is not _fighting_ in my kitchen. And, Jackson David Whittmore, there is _definitely_ no _cursing_ in my kitchen!” The Omega flushed and ducked his head, sulking even as his shoulders hunched defensively.

“But Stiles,” Scott began, glaring at Peter heatedly; Stiles snarled and glared at his friend, who actually _flinched_ , looking at him with wide, hurt eyes.

“No,” Stiles said flatly, glaring at them all. “Now, I am going to eat _my_ lunch, and you're going to listen to your Alpha as he finishes explaining, understand?” Silence, and he narrowed his eyes. “ _Do you understand?!”_ He snapped; the Pack muttered and mumbled agreements, and those standing reluctantly sat back down, sulking over what remained of their food or empty plates. 

“Good,” Stiles said, satisfied, and nodded at Derek.

“Thank you, Stiles,” he grunted, and returned to his explanation, telling them about how Peter was sane now, and how he wouldn't be trying to become Alpha again. Stiles felt a small amount of unconscious tension slip away from him, relaxing his shoulders just slightly, but not all of it. After all, the Peter he remembered wasn't one to just sit back and let someone else take the wheel. But, then again, that Peter had been Alpha, and this one was just a Beta, with bright , glowing blue eyes like Derek's had been... Which made him wonder if all the Hale Beta's had blue eyes. Did they all have red eyes when they were Alphas, or was that a general Alpha Eye Color? What color were the eyes of the Hale Omegas? Did Wolves from other Packs all have different wolfy-eye-colors? If so, was there a significance to the colors?

“Stiles,” Derek said loudly; the boy squawked, jerking and blinking rapidly, before turning his attention to exasperated Wolf.

“Yes, Sourwolf?” He asked nonchalantly, as if he was bored and had only just deigned to answer. Like he _hadn't_ been daydreaming/mentally-rambling to himself. The effort was wasted, however, as Peter chuckled and Scott shot him a fond grin before turning his suspicious glare back to the former Alpha. Derek let out a quiet growl and shook his head.

“I asked if having Peter here for dinner would be a problem,” he repeated himself; Stiles blinked, and then an incredulous look at the Alpha, feeling faintly insulted.

“Are you saying I can't handle feeding one more Wolf?” He demanded; Derek blinked, dumbfounded, and opened his mouth, but Stiles continued as if he didn't see it. “Because, you know, you never bothered asking when you turned Erica, and Isaac, _and_ Boyd, and Danny was already eating with us mostly, he just got a larger stomach or something with the bite, but whatever. Not that I don't adore them all, or anything, because I _do_ , and totally don't mind cooking for them at _all_ , in fact I love it, but the point is that you never asked _before_ , and–”

“Enough!” Derek snapped; Stiles immediately fell quiet, eying him with a pursed mouth. “Just... Forget I asked.” The Alpha said with a frustrated growl, dragging his fingers through his hair. Stiles nodded, face relaxing and gentling. There was silence for a few moments.

“Hey Stiles,” Scott broke in, looking over at his friend. “What's for dinner?” Stiles blinked, and then laughed, shaking his head.

“I don't know, what do you want?” He asked with a fond smile; his friend grinned at him.

“Pasta!” Allison and Lydia shouted, and then shared a grin.

“Potato Soup,” Boyd injected quietly; he still wasn't much for talking, letting his actions usually speak for him.

“Can we have that salad with the pineapple pieces?” Danny asked hopefully; Jackson wrinkled his nose but shrugged.

“Whatever,” he said, and Stiles thought he might still be sulking over having been called out during the argument. Isaac hesitated, then peered at Stiles from beneath his lashes.

“Can we have Bananas Foster?” He asked softly; Stiles gave him an encouraging smile and nodded.

“And for drinks?” He asked; Peter spoke up.

“I would rather like to have a White Strawberry Sangria, though as the Cubs are underage, I suppose you'll make something else.” Stiles shrugged.

“I can make you that drink,” he said simply.

“Can we has raspberry lemonade?” Erica asked, to murmurings of approval from Allison, Lydia, and Danny, with Jackson wrinkling his nose. Stiles smiled.

“Okay then,” he said, mentally going over everything. “Fettuccine Alfredo good for the pasta?” He got a few nods, and continued. “Potato Soup, good, and a Abidjan Cabbage Salad, with Bananas Foster for dessert. Raspberry Lemonade or water for everyone underage, a White Strawberry Sangria for Peter, and...” He cocked his head and slanted his eyes to Derek. “How about a cup of Darjeeling Tea for you, Derek?” The Wolf's lips twitch and he inclined his head. Stiles beamed and set the cooking pot on the counter, moving to get his apron (a birthday gift from Scott that said “You can kiss the Cook, BUT keep your hands off my Buns” with a picture of burger buns underneath the words.)

“Alright, all of you, out of my kitchen,” he ordered; everyone scrambled to obey, except Derek, Lydia, and Peter. Lydia sauntered over to him and gave him a kiss on the cheek, winked at him, and grinned as he shooed her away with a mock-threatening motion of his wooden spoon. She left the kitchen, and that left Stiles alone with the former and current Alphas.

“You too,” he ordered, frowning at them; Peter gave him a small, knowing smile, which was freaky because _what did he know_ _the Stiles didn't_? Then he left, telling Derek he'd be in 'his room'. Derek moved over to Stiles and placed his hand on the back of the boys neck, using it as a grip in order to make Stiles turn to look at him. The Alpha pressed their foreheads together, his eyes closed. Stiles blinked, confused, before deciding that Mommy!Stiles was needed here, instead of the Wolf-Whisperer.

“Hey,” he said gently, and rubbed his hands up and down Derek's upper arms. “It's gonna be alright, Sourwolf. Don't worry.” Derek took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and nodded after pulling away. He then left, having not said a word, and Stiles wrinkled his brow in confusion, looking after the Sourwolf with a small amount of worry. Shaking his head and pushing the worry back for the moment, he dove into making dinner, even though he still had a few hours. Better to have everything ready, after all.

He did the lemonade first, as he did  _not_ want to bother with squeezing twelve fresh lemons later. He poured the juice into a pitcher, and pulled a small container of fresh raspberries from the fridge, ignoring the part of the recipe that said to use thawed frozen berries (His Mom had always told him the Fresh was the Best when it came to fruits, and he would live by her teachings). He pureed a cup of the fruit instead of the recommended three-fourths, and then strained the mess with a fine sieve, into the pitcher. Her pulled out a whisk and set it to the side, before adding nine cups of water into the mix next. Finally, he poured the two cups of superfine sugar in, and whisked it until all of the sugar was dissolved. That done, he put the pitcher in the fridge, dumped the raspberry remains and lemon rinds, and put the sugar away, tossing the whisk into the sink while he was at it.

Next he started on the salad, fixing it up swiftly and easily before putting it in the fridge, the bowl covered in plastic wrap to keep the lettuce crisp. He pulled a large saucepan out a cabinet and started on the Potato Soup next. He decided on Leftover Potato Soup, even though he didn't have any leftover baked potatoes. He grabbed more than the recommended four potatoes, all of them nice and big, and went about turning them into baked potatoes. As he started getting all of the needed ingredients, he noticed that they had no buttermilk, chives, or Sherry vinegar. 

“Derek,” he called suddenly; the Wolf appeared at the door. “I need a few ingredients we don't have to make the soup,” he told the Alpha, who nodded.

“I'll send Scott, Allison, and Lydia,” he replied; Stiles blinked.

“Um, I only need three ingredients,” he said. “Are you sure all three of them should go?” Derek gave him a bland look.

“If I send just Scott, he'll get the wrong thing,” the Alpha replied. “If I send just Allison, Scott will sulk and be antsy until she gets back, and might try and pick a fight with one of the others in order to distract himself. If I just send Lydia, Jackson will want to go so she's not by herself. If I just send Allison and Scott, they'll be gone for hours. If I send Lydia and one of the other two, there may be blood or they'll be gone for hours. Now, If I send the three of them _together_ –” Stiles interrupted, rolling his eyes slightly.

“Lydia will keep Romeo and Juliet from getting distracted, Scott will have two women to keep him in line, and Allison and Lydia wont get distracted by clothes. They'll probably get here faster because they don't want to be stuck together. I get it. You know, you said 'if I send just' a lot in that explanation, right? I mean, a _lot_.” He got a small glare and Derek's eyes rimmed in red.

“Just write what you need down and give it to me,” he ordered; Stiles knew when to push and tease the other, and it was obviously not something to do that day. Derek was obviously stressed over having his Uncle back in the house, and so the teenager scrawled the three needed ingredients down, before adding bananas on there when he noticed they were out of those as well. Handing the list to Derek, he turned to the stove and began making Alfredo, using penne noodles for the hell of it. It was easy enough to make, especially when he dumped the can of Cheesy Parmesan Alfredo Sauce onto the noodles when they were done. This was the one time he _liked_ canned food. His homemade Parmesan Sauce never quite came out as good as what his Mom used to make, and he didn't like trying to recreate it when it never came out likes hers. It left him melancholy. 

Anyways, he set the finished pan back on a back burner, turning said burner on its lowest setting to keep the food warm, and reminding himself to stir it every once in a while. By the time Scott came in with his groceries, he had the baked potatoes out and halved, the pulp scraped out and put through a ricer. He thanked his friend, absently dragging his fingers through the Beta's hair before shooing him from the room. Now that he had everything he needed, he moved about with purpose. First things first, he tossed the butter into the saucepan and waited until it melted before adding the finely diced leeks (which he had made that way while waiting for the butter to melt) as well as the garlic. He kept it on medium heat, stirring carefully every few minutes. When he wasn't stirring saucepan ingredients, he was whisking the  riced potatoes, buttermilk, sour cream, and grated Parmesan in a different bowl. Once the leeks were transparent, he added the several cups of chicken stock after heating said stock in the microwave, mixing it all up thoroughly.

Finally, he carefully added the bowl-mix into the saucepan, stirring constantly. He seasoned it all with salt and pepper and, once it was done, he removed it from the heat and added the Sherry vinegar, stirring seriously. He set the chives nearby, knowing he'd need to toss those onto the soup once it was in bowls. He glanced at the clock and pursed his lips. Even drawing the whole process out, he only spent forty-five minutes. All together he'd spent an hour and twenty minutes. The Bananas Foster would need to be made quickly and poured over vanilla ice cream, and then served immediately, so he couldn't exactly make it right then. Stiles hummed, lips pursed, and then decided he might as well make Peter's drink. It would need to chill for an hour or more, if he remembered correctly, so that worked out.

Cleaning up his mess from making the Alfredo and soup, he pulled out the required ingredients for a White Strawberry Sangria. A seven hundred fifty-millimeter bottle of white wine (he went with the Sauvignon Blanc Derek had in the wine cooler. Stiles was just glad he had it, because he didn't have the other wine one could use, the Pinot Grigio.), a half-cup of strawberry schnapps, a fourth cup of sugar, two cups of sliced fresh strawberries, and the ice was in the fridge. He opted on  _not_ for the option of using whole strawberries as garnish. Peter could get them if he wanted, but otherwise it was fine by itself. No need to get fancy with it.

Humming softly to himself, he set a 2-quart pitcher on the counter, and poured in the wine, schnapps, and sugar. He whisked it until the sugar had dissolved, and then tossed in the strawberry halves, stirring them in, careful not to bruise the fruit. Once that was done, he covered the top of the pitcher with plastic wrap and put it away to chill. Idly popping a strawberry into his mouth, Stiles cleaned up, leaving the dishes in the sink for delegation duties later, and looked around, at a loss as to what he should do. He still had two hours before dinner. With a sigh, he took off his apron and went to the living room, plopping down on the couch next to Isaac and Boyd, settling in to watch  _Myth Busters_ with the two until dinner. He unconsciously wrapped an arm around Isaac when the Omega curled against his side, and brushed his hand up and down Boyd's arm with his free hand.

By the time it was dinnertime, Stiles was bored with the show, since it was showing reruns of the previous weeks episode as so didn't hold his attention. He nearly fled to the kitchen, reheated the soup and made sure the Alfredo didn't turn gross while he was away, and then pulled out the salad and two pitchers, and a third pitcher of ice water, absently adding ice to the other pitchers as well. Off to the side, he set out all the ingredients he'd need for Bananas Foster, minus the ice cream, which he left in the fridge, and then poked his head out the door.

“Hmm,” he said, pursing his lips. “Hey Erica, you wanna come and set the table?” The girl blinked, startled, before she nodded and padded into the kitchen-well, more like _sashayed_ but Lydia and Allison did it with so much more grace that Stiles decided to ignore that bit. While she started setting plates and glasses around the table, Stiles grabbed the extra chair from the closet and set it on Derek's right, leaving his chair open on the left, before getting bowls for the soup and filling them, two at a time, before carrying them over to the table, smiling at Erica as she grabs the silverware (Which isn't actually silver, because, _hello_ , _Werewolves_ , but Stiles doesn't really know what else to call it, so he just leaves it at that.) and places them all in their proper places without having to be asked. Once that was done, Stiles moved the Alfredo and Salad over, as well as the two pitchers. Quickly, he popped a cub of water in the microwave, with the Darjeeling packet so that the tea would seep faster, before stirring in a small amount of milk and honey, and setting it next to Derek's plate.

“Dinner's done!” Erica shouted, which was pretty much unneeded, as only Stiles and Allison didn't have the Super Senses of the Wolves, but the teenager shrugged after giving the girl a deadpan look. After a few moments, everyone was in the kitchen, taking their seats, with Peter settling into the extra chair to Derek's right, next to Lydia who gave him a haughty look before tossing her hair and sitting primly. Stiles swiftly made Derek his plate, looked everything over, and nodded with his usual “Well?”, starting the meal officially. He moved around, pouring Peter his Sangria first, and then pouring everyone else either lemonade or water. Once that was done and everyone had their food, he sat down and made himself a plate, eating swiftly and neatly, since he still had to make the dessert. He finished the same time as Derek, stood, and moved smoothly over to the stove.

“This'll take about fifteen minutes,” he called over his shoulder, already setting the large skillet on the burner and dumping about a third of a cup of butter into it to melt. “This has to be dumped over ice cream immediately after finishing, so that's why it had to wait,” he added, explaining it even as he's bias-slicing the bananas and dumping them into a bowl. The butter's melted, so he starts stirring in the third-cup of brown sugar until its all melted. Then he added the bananas, turned the heat down to medium, and stood there carefully stirring for two minutes. He sprinkled in the miniscule amount of cinnamon required, before dumping in the two tablespoons of Crème de Cacao (he could have gone with the normal-sounding Banana Liqueur, but, as he's said in the past, he is _not_ a Conformist!). Mixing that all together, he set the heat to a low simmer and pulled out the small saucepan needed for his favorite part. 

Carefully, Stiles dumped the forth-cup of rum into the pan, heating it until it was almost simmering. As soon as it reached that point, he pulled over the long fireplace match, and, with a grin flashed at the Pack, lit the rum on fire. Ignoring Derek low snarl, he immediately began pouring the flaming liquid carefully over the banana-mix, and began carefully stirring it all together.

“Would someone get out the vanilla ice cream and scoop it into the bowls sitting over there?” He asked, watching the flames of his mixture die down as he sensed the movement behind him. 

“Done,” Scott called; Stiles immediately lifted the skillet, using one of his trusty purple mitts, and carried it to the table, carefully pouring the mixture over Derek's ice cream first, and then Isaac's since it was his choice of dessert. Lydia and Allison just opted for plain vanilla ice cream, and by the time he had finished pouring the mix over everyone's treats, there was barely enough for his own, so he shrugged and dumped the last bit into Peter's, since he'd been the last person to get any. Stiles carried the skillet back to the oven and returned to the table, settling in to enjoy his vanilla ice cream. 

When everyone was finished, Delegation Duty was established. Peter and Boyd got dish duty, to the older mans bemusement. Lydia, Allison, and Scott were ordered to clean the living room, while Isaac, Erica, and Danny went to move the air mattresses and Derek's Mattress into the living room once everything was rearranged. Derek took the tablecloth to the laundry room, and put away the left overs, while Stiles swept the kitchen. The trash had been taken out that morning, it seemed, as it was only half full, so no one needed to do that job. Jackson opted to help clean the living room, feeling awkward without a job to do, apparently.

“That was a very nice dinner, Stiles,” Peter told him, and Stiles nodded his head with an absent smile as he dumped the dustpan's contents into the trash.

“I'm glad you enjoyed it,” he replied simply, putting the broom away and heading towards the laundry room to start a load, smiling at Derek when he passed... Or, well, when he _would_ have passed, if the Wolf hadn't grabbed him by the shoulders and pinned him to the wall, red eyes glowing.

“Next time,” he growled, fangs glinting in the light, “you need to set something on fire in my house, _don't_. Not without permission. Understand.” _Uh-oh_ , Stiles thought, _improper punctuation AND wall-shove? Definitely in trouble._ Stiles went limp against the wall, letting his head lull to the side, exposing his neck, eyes down submissively.

“Yes, Alpha,” he replied softly even as fangs latched onto his neck with a bit more of pressure than the Wolf usually used on him. Stiles didn't flinch at the painful pinch, however, and just stood there. “I'm sorry, Alpha.” Derek growled, low in his throat, before pulling back and pressing Stiles into the wall with his entire weight, burying his nose in the boy's hair and taking a slow breath. Stiles moved cautiously after a few minutes, rubbing his fingers, and then his hands, gently up and down Derek's back, in an almost hug.

Finally, the Alpha moved away, brushed his nose against Stiles' own in an almost-apology, before turning and trotting away as casually as if nothing had happened. Stiles shook his head slowly and finished his trek to the laundry room, starting that intended load, and then moving to the living room. It was Pack Night, and he couldn't help but wonder where Peter was going to sleep. There was only a certain number of air beds, after all, and he  _seriously_ doubt Derek would share His Mattress with his uncle right at the get-go. Maybe after the rest of the Pack started its unanimous movements towards the Mattress, but not before that.

And, as everyone is getting ready for bed, Peter notices the problem as well. And there's this split second, this tiny, little moment, where the former Alpha hesitates, his eyes flickering over the air beds and Derek's Mattress in one go, and there's this sudden expression of  _regret_ and  _grief_ and  _longing_ on his face that Stiles is pretty sure he would have missed if he hadn't been watching the Zombie-Wolf while lost in his own thoughts. And, suddenly, Stiles is in Mommy-Mode, moving towards the man without any hesitation or thought, because, even if Peter is older than him, he  _needs_ comfort, just as any of Stiles Cubs did, and Stiles can only offer it in the only way he knew.

As soon as he was in reach, Stiles reached towards Peter and wrapped his fingers around the man's wrist. There's this flicker of memory, remembering how this man had done the same to him, once, only it was purely a Bad Touch and not a Comfort Touch like Stiles was offering, but the memory is there and gone again, and he's pulling the Wolf over to his own designated air bed and pushing him onto it, huffing softly. Once Peter was seated, with a blank expression Stiles took as a mixture of disbelief and bemusement, the teenager turned and moved over to Derek's Mattress, pausing and cocking his head at the Alpha, who flashed red eyes at him and gave a low, soothing growl, which Stiles took as permission. 

Quickly, he crawled onto the bed and laid his head in its customary position on the older man's helpfully extended arm. Lydia turned off the lights, and everyone settled in to sleep. Derek remained awake, red eyes glowing like to embers in the darkness, and Stiles shifted a hand over and gently stroked the Sourwolf along his side, the movement becoming unconsciously hypnotizing to him, and slowly began to doze.

Scott is the first one to the bed this time, Allison moving with him. He curled against Derek's other side, clenching his hands against the Alpha's shirtless chest as Allison cuddles into his back. Minutes later, Lydia is circling the bed, before curling up against Derek's feet, hand latched onto Stiles foot with a single-minded sort of  _'My Precious...'_ kind of way that had Stiles biting a lip to keep from grinning. Jackson and Danny are next, sprawling onto Derek and getting a snarl from Lydia when one accidentally kicks her. Stiles finds himself being pulled up against the Alpha's side, and Danny's head ends up cushioned on his naval, with Jackson's on his upper thigh, their foreheads pressed together. Movement on his free side has Stiles turning his head, and meeting the bright, glowing blue of Peter's gaze, and, feeling weird but still stuck a bit in Mommy-Mode, Stiles stretches out his arm to the former Alpha, who takes the invitation and lays down against his free side, barely touching with his head resting on Stiles arm, hands curled slightly around it and blue eyes going half lidded. Isaac joins next, laying down across Peter's hip so he can wrap his arms around Stile's torso, a side pressing against Danny's head, and his mouth latching onto the place  _just_ above his nipple, which is  _really awkward_ but Stiles pushes that away in order to croon low in his chest at the little Omega and others. Boyd comes next, curling against Peter's back and Isaac's legs, already asleep again once he settled in. Finally, Erica joined, curling on top of Boyd's body and resting her head on Peter's shoulder, flinging and arm across him to slip her hand between Isaac's chest and Stiles, gripping the human's shirt lightly.

After about fifteen minutes, Derek let out a low, humming growl, and Stiles responded immediately with a soft croon. Surprisingly, Peter replied as well, his eyes open just a slit to show glowing blue as he whined softly. Stiles hesitated for a second, before leaning over and nuzzling the man's hair, murmuring wordlessly to him until even that slit of blue disappeared and his breaths became deep and slow. Then Stiles turned his eyes to Derek, who met his gaze with glowing red orbs, half-lidded. 

Stiles shifted his head and laid on Derek's chest, and fell asleep to the soothing beat of the Alpha's heart, surrounded by his Pack, and still feeling slightly uncomfortable with Isaac's gnawing placement.

 


	7. Food Court

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WHY are all the Moms at the Mall giving Stiles sympathetic looks?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from RoxasIsReal13 on FF.N

**Food Court**

**Summary:** _Why_  are all the Moms at the Mall giving Stiles sympathetic looks?

**CHAPTER BEGINS**

“Okay, we're here,” Stiles announced the obvious once he parked the car, or, well, _van_ because that's what it was. A dark blue minivan, which Derek had bought so that Stiles could fit everyone in one car. It wasn't his baby, but Stiles could appreciate the van, especially when it had better gas mileage and no one complained about being cramped – well, _almost_ no one, but Jackson and Erica apparently were as unable to _not complain_ as Stiles was unable to _not stop talking_.

“Every stay with your partner,” Stiles ordered, pleased he'd had the idea of putting the child-locks on before starting this adventure, stopping the chatting teenagers behind him from rushing out. “The Buddy-System is imperative.” 

“Yes, _Mom_ ,” Erica snarked. “If we get lost, we'll go find an adult... Or, wait! We have these nifty devises called _cellphones_ , maybe we'll use them!” Stiles blinked, turned, and stared at her.

“...You've been spending too much time with me,” He announced, bemused. Then he paused. “Or maybe with Jackson,” he amended, earning an annoyed “Hey!” from the very back. “Okay, everyone, you're free to go,” he announced after climbing out of the car and opening the side doors. “And remember, we're meeting at the food court in three hours!” They lunged out, Lydia and Allison pausing in order to kiss him on the cheek before leaving together. Jackson and Danny were already halfway to the doors, which was pretty amazing since they'd been in the very back of the van. Isaac and Scott were trotting after them, side-by-side, and Boyd and Erica were mocking them behind their backs... Or, well, Erica was. Boyd was doing his usual stoic-and-silent thing. That left Stiles with Peter, because Derek was out doing... Derek-Things. What _did_ he do when he wasn't with the Pack? Wallow in a pool of wolfy angst? Try to get drunk (which was nearly impossible, Stiles had found out. The Werewolf system burnt through the alcohol _really_ fast. They'd have to drink enough to make a human die from alcohol poisoning to get more than a small buzz.)? Maybe he just walked around naked since he didn't have to worry about anyone walking in on him. 

“Are we going to enter the building any time soon, Stiles?” Peter drawled from beside him, lifting an eyebrow. Stiles rolled his eyes slightly and nodded, leading the way towards the Mall. When they entered, Stiles was forced to trot after Peter as he freaking _power walked_ towards the nearest mens' clothes store. The immediately set about browsing, and Stiles found himself standing a little awkwardly outside the door, waiting.

“What do you think,” Peter asked, appearing in the doorway and holding a dark blue dress shirt and a pair of black slacks up, cocking an eyebrow. Stiles bit back a sigh, studied the clothes, then shrugged.

“If you get another trench coat or duster or whatever, it would look great,” he told the former Alpha; a flash of some sort of emotion crossed Peter's face, before it disappeared behind the return of his _'you want some candy, little boy?'_ smile. 

“Excellent,” he announced, before going back inside. He returned not even two minutes later, holding up two different coats, one a dark black and leather, the other one clothe and a charcoal black. Stiles pointed at the charcoal one, , and Peter disappeared back inside. 

He reappeared nearly fifteen minutes later, carrying a bag of his old clothes and wearing his new ones, a look on his face that Stiles could only describe as _shy_. Stiles smiles at him with as much approval as he can muster, and watches as the former relax, that look slipping away to be replaced by Peter's usual _'Like a Boss'_ kind of expression, the one that's smug and smirking slightly, and always ready to lift an eyebrow in sardonic mockery of whatever he deems needs it. It's a look that's _habitual_ , and Stiles is the one who leads the way around next.

“Hey, Stiles!” Erica calls, her and Boyd popping up and giving him a _freaking heart-attack_. The blond holds up a pale blue blouse with slight ruffles down the middle, leading from the bottom up to the low-cut neck. “Would this make me look slutty?” She asked, and held it up to her front. Stiles blinked, looked it over, and pursed his lips.

“If you wear it with black jeans and that leather jacket of yours, I think you could pull of the 'bitch, please' look,” he offered; he had to blink when the girl _beamed_ at him, thanked him, and then dragged the silent Boyd back into the crowd, disappearing. Stiles looked up at Peter, then shrugged when all he got was that eyebrow-raise he mentioned earlier. Ten minutes later, Scott and Isaac show up, both holding shirts and asking for Stiles opinion. Scott had a dark green shirt with _BITE ME_ written in large red letters, with a punk'd out looking smiley face that had arms, which were crossed as it smirked off the shirt. Stiles approved, and turned to Isaac, who was shyly holding out a blue-and-gray striped sweater. Stiles took it and pressed it against the other teen's chest, lips pursed.

“I like it,” he told him. “It brings out your eyes, and will make your torso slimmer.” He smiled at Isaac's shy look, and gave them both a hug before they left. Not five minutes later Allison and Lydia appeared, and dragged him (and, as a result, Peter) with them to the Pet Store to try and convince him that the Pack needed a mascot, and tried to bribe, threaten, and beg him to convince Derek to get them a puppy, specifically, a husky puppy that had pale blue eyes. Stiles thought it was cute, he'd admit, but put his foot down and told them no. The sulky glares he got from the two girls, didn't faze him at all, and he left them.

“Okay, that was seriously out of character,” he muttered as he wandered aimlessly. 

“They're menstruating,” Peter told him from slightly behind and off to the right. Stiles flinched, stopped in place, and slowly turned to face the former Alpha with a look of horrified disgust on his face.

“I _really_ don't want to know why you sound so _sure_ about that, and, just for the record, _ew!_ No talking about, about _girl problems_ when they don't bring it up themselves! That is the new rule for this Buddy-System, okay?” Peter gave his usual Creeper Smile ™ and shrugged. Stiles gave a shudder and returned to walking around. He hadn't really needed anything, and he wasn't going to the Arcade with Pedowolf in tow, that was just _begging_ for creepiness. Jackson and Danny interrupted his thoughts by showing up with two pairs of shoes each, showing them to him.

“I don't know which to get,” Jackson muttered, scowling slightly; Stiles blinked and looked at the stylish, expensive sneakers, staring.

“Get both,” he suggested. “Wear one pair for school, and the other for lacrosse.” The jock pursed his lips and stared at the shoes, before nodding and giving Stiles his half-smirk, half-smile.

“Which is better for Training?” Danny demanded, looking a little frazzled; Stiles looked at the shoes again, peering at the brands, and pointed at the right pair.

“That brand tends to last longer, even if you use them a lot,” Stiles told him; Danny nodded, flashed him a relieved grin, before dragging Jackson back to wherever they'd been, arguing about something Stiles didn't bother listening to. Making his way to the kitchen store, Stiles waved Peter away when the Wolf told him he'd be sitting on the bench outside, just telling the Wolf not to leave that bench or else Stiles wouldn't be able to find the rest of the Pack if there was an emergency. 

Wandering around, he admired the newest equipment, and stood with a handful of women and two man to watch a video demonstration of a few of the state-of-the-art tools. Someone tugged lightly on his sleeve, and he dragged his fascinated eyes away from the screen to find that Isaac was shuffling in place beside him.

“Erm, Stiles,” Isaac said, and hesitantly held up a soft-looking red flannel shirt, freshly bought. “I got you this,” the boy muttered, cheeks flushing and eyes lowered and away in submission. Stiles blinked, and then beamed at him, hugging the boy close and accepting the shirt.

“It's awesome, Isaac, thank you,” he said warmly, making Isaac smile and snuggle against him. “Wear's Scott?” He asked, frowning slightly; Isaac pointed through the window, and Stiles saw Scott and Peter eying one another... Or, well, Scott eying Peter and Peter being, well, _himself_. He sighed and nudged the Wolf cuddling against him a bit. “You should probably go grab him and drag him somewhere... _Far_ away from Allison. She'll convince him to buy her the puppy that she tried to get me to get her.” Isaac nodded, kissed his cheek abruptly, and all but ran from the store. Stiles shook his head, amused, and turned to find himself being stared at by an old lady. 

“Kids,” he told her, beaming. “They're always so full of energy and spontaneity, aren't they?” She blinked, and then smiled, wrinkled face lighting up.

“My grandson is the same way,” she told him, and Stiles nodded. “How many do you have?” She asked; Stiles blinked.

“Um, I sort of adopted eight teenagers, and recently took in a friends uncle who just got over a bad case” _of insanity_ “of pneumonia. And, we're all basically living at that friends house. I make the food and do the laundry, and he pays the bills.” The old woman nodded and another woman was looking at him with interest now.

“How old are you?” She asked; Stiles blinked.

“Never ask a lady her age,” he told her primly, and grinned when she laughed. “I'm in high school,” he told her.

“You're too young to be taking care of so many children,” the old woman announced; Stiles shrugged.

“It's cool, they're awesome, so,” he shrugged, draping his new flannel shirt over his shoulder.

“Stile!” Erica called from the front of the store.

“Here!” He called back; the blond appeared with a slightly frustrated expression.

“I need help,” she told him; he frowned worriedly at her. “Should I use _Bloody Valentine_ or _Passion_?” She demanded, holding up the two tubes of lipstick. Stiles stared at her, and then sighed, holding out his hands. She dropped them into her palms as Boyd rose up behind her like some shadow, eyes broody as he watched Stiles. Stiles peered at the two sticks, before handing her _Bloody Valentine_.

“I was tempted to say this one just for the name's sake,” he admitted. “But, honestly, the dark pinkish red will look better than the dark red, less slut and more... Chic badass, you know?” Erica grinned, happy, and immediately applied the lipstick. 

“I bought both, just in case,” she told him, and stepped out of the way so Boyd could hold up the two books and give Stiles a questioning look. Stiles took them and sped through the summaries, before handing the Wolf the supernatural horror.

“Plot's better,” he informed Boyd, and tapped the other book with his free hand. “This one turns into a cliché romance you can see a mile away, and you'll get frustrated. Believe me, I can tell.” Boyd grunted a stoic 'thank you' before taking back the other book and the two of them left. Stiles sighed and checked his watch.

“I better go,” he told the two women he'd been talking to. “Peter's probably getting antsy by now.”

“Is Peter your boyfriend?” The younger woman asked; Stiles choked, eyes going huge.

“No!” He yelped. “A whole _world_ of no! He's my friends _uncle_ and that would be _..._ Ugh, I don't even have the _words_!” His face was on fire, he knew it, and the lady was grinning, amused.

“Okay, okay, I'm sorry for suggesting it,” she said, amused. Stiles shuddered and bid them both goodbye before making a tactical retreat. A _fast_ tactical retreat, one that would put Wile E. Coyote to shame. He could probably catch the Roadrunner, he was moving so fast.

“We're going somewhere,” he told Peter, grabbing the mans hand and dragging him away from the store. “Don't know where, don't care where, we're just _going_.” Peter was silent but didn't resist his tugging, so Stiles kept going until they were practically on the other side of the Mall, and only then did he stop, panting slightly from the fast pace.

“Would it be so horrible?” Peter asked suddenly, voice more curious than anything else, head cocked to the side when Stiles looked up at him, confused.

“What?” Stiles asked him; Peter had his _'I'm Plotting'_ look of concentration on his face.

“Being my mate,” the man said; Stiles blinked. “Or, as the woman said, my... _boyfriend_ ,” he said, with a hint of disapproval and distaste in his voice. Stiles gawped at him.

“ _What?!_ ” squawked, gobsmacked; Peter nodded, looking like he had just found the most _interesting_ bug and was going to dissect it. He was practically _radiating_ Creeper Vibes.

“I don't believe it would be so horrid,” Peter mused, eying him thoughtfully. “You're smart, loyal, excellent maternal instincts. You'd care for any cubs we had very well, in fact, you already _are_. You have a sense of justice and a set of moral standards that I sometimes lack. You understand most of what being a Werewolf entails, can use our body language to calm and sooth. Yes,” he said with a satisfied look. “You'd be a most satisfactory mate.” Stiles felt a chill speed down his spine, goosebumps rising all along his arms as the hair on the back of his neck stood up.

“No,” he said, voice a little strained but still managing to come out firmly. Peter cocked his head again. “There will be no mating. No boyfriends. _Nothing like that_ between us, Peter Hale,” he said, and that chill was replaced with a roll of anger in his gut, his eyes narrowing. “I will help you, feed you, care for you and offer comfort and advise, because you're _Pack,_ but nothing else. I do not like you like that, I will _not_ like you like that, and I swear to _god_ that if you try to force the issue, there won't be enough body _left_ to resurrect a second time.” He glared up at the former Alpha heatedly, and Peter just stared back with that blank look that meant he didn't know whether to attack or retreat from the verbal assault. Finally he inclined his head slowly towards Stiles, and spread his arms slightly as if in supplication.

“I apologize,” he said calmly. “I won't bring it up again.” Stiles stared at him with hard eyes for a few minutes, before they softened and he bobbed his head in acceptance of the apology.

“Good,” he said firmly, and mentally cursed his inability to stay that angry for long. Resentment, resentment he could do, but that sort of anger that builds up in your stomach and chest with that weird tingly feeling, and leaves you feeling drained and depressed? He couldn't do that. The closest he ever got was that ball that sat like lead in his stomach. A lead ball. A lead ball that felt like it was on _fire_. But that fire went out quick enough, and that lead ball dissolved, too.

“Let's go window shopping,” he finally said, and turned to lead the way once more. Peter followed like an obedient puppy, occasionally remarking on something he saw or someone they passed once they were out of earshot. Over the next two hours, the rest of the Pack would randomly pop up and demand/ask/beg about something or another, and Stiles was beginning to get a headache. He'd noticed, during the time he was telling Lydia that the stuffed dog she bought instead of a real one was very nice, that he was getting strange looks. At first, they were just sympathetic looks from guys out shopping with their girlfriends, but then the women and men out with their kids were sending him sympathetic, _knowing_ looks every time the same couple spotted him doing something for his needy Cubs. He'd smile and nod at them tiredly, before grabbing Peter by the wrist (something he found he became used to being able to do _way_ too easily. Hello, Power Trip, when did you arrive?) and dragging him off somewhere... Well, not really _dragging_ , more like, _leading_ him. If Peter didn't want to move, he wouldn't, but Stiles got the feeling he was being _indulged_ by the Zombie-Wolf.

Finally, though, they were all meeting at the food court, where they placed their orders (getting wide eyes from the employees for the sheer _amount_ of food they were buying), and Stiles charged it to Derek's debit card, and then put a twenty dollar bill in the tip jar in apology for making the workers scramble to fill their order. Stiles let the Pack's conversations soak through him, taking a deep breath before jumping in and providing a steady babble that earned him warm and fond smiles, relaxed shoulders, and a general atmosphere of contentment.

They ate their food, grabbed their bags, and left for the Hale House, where Stiles made Derek a few grilled cheese sandwiches and some tomato soup, sitting at the table with him while he ate, and laying his head on the table with a tired sigh, relaxing when Derek placed his large hand over the back of Stiles neck and rubbing it gently. Stiles never remembers falling asleep...

And he never remembered Derek carrying him upstairs and tucking him in on Derek's own bed, leaving him to rest, and ordering pizza for dinner. Still, when Stiles wakes up feeling much better and without the headache, he can't help but lean against Derek on the couch while munching on pizza and watching _Thor_ with his Pack.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought Stiles could use a break from cooking... CREEPER PETER!! O_O


	8. Chicken Noodle Soup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Flu, enemy of the common man... And Stiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from Travel1701 on FF.N, and weebleroxanne on AO3, both of which gave pretty much the same prompt.
> 
> ALSO: Kudos to all others who had vague mentions of this prompt. I assure you, all specific Prompts will most likely be used, no worries!
> 
> ENJOY!

**Chicken Noodle Soup**

 

 ** _Summary:_** The Flu, enemy of the common man... And Stiles.

 

**CHAPTER BEGINS**

 

Stiles was a mess. A disgusting mess. One that dripped snot and other viscous fluids, and coughed like he was trying to force up a lung by sheer force. And who vomited when anything but saltine crackers touched his stomach. And who had hot-flashes and cold-flashes more often then some middle-aged women.

And, due to the fact that his Dad was out of town on some job-related get-together for the next two weeks, Stiles was staying at the Hale House, quarantined to a room with a brand new mattress and constantly getting peeked in on by his Cubs, Derek, and Peter. The latter of which would stand in the doorway and stare at his shirtless-self and make Stiles want to cover himself like some virgin maiden in a trashy romance when the bad guy catches her half-dressed. It never ceased to make him long for a shower and a can of industrial-strength mace.

But, for now, he'd settle with something to eat, even if he knew he'd throw most of it up.

“Derek,” he croaked, voice stuffy and strangely muffled-sounding, but that never stopped Derek, with his Super-Wolfy-Hearing-of-Doom... Though, Stiles got the feeling he was creeping around outside the door and using those Wolfy Senses to be a Creeper, because the door always opened, like, _immediately_ after Stiles said his name.

“What do you need, Stiles?” The Wolf rumbled, padding forward and placing his hand on Stiles head. His wonderfully cool hand. That, like, had magical powers to make migraines go away and make Stiles stop feeling like his pulsing eyes were going to _fall out of his head_. The boy moaned weakly and pressed into that hand with a relieved expression, and Derek rubbed his thumb gently against Stiles' temple.

“'M hungry,” Stiles croaked after a couple of minutes, sniffling loudly as his nose continued to run, unchecked. Derek used his free hand to hand Stiles a couple of Kleenex©, and didn't seem at all bothered when Stiles blew enough mucus into them to drown a kitten. 

“How about some soup?” was all he said, and Stiles whimpered an affirmative, but didn't let go of Derek's wrist when he pressed the cool appendage against his cheek, trying to relieve the uncomfortable heat his high fever was leaving him.

“'S nice,” Stiles slurred; Derek sat next to him finally, pulled off his shirt, and tossed it aside, before moving the sick boy and himself about. When he stopped moving, Derek's legs were stretched out with Stiles cradled between them, his sweaty back pressed against Derek's front as his lolled back against the Alpha's shoulder.

“Scott and Boyd are downstairs,” Derek said calmly, hands stroking up and down Stiles arms as he whimpered piteously, unhappy and nauseous. “I sent Peter and Allison to get some medicine, and the rest of the Pack is out hunting. You being sick has them stressed,” he said before Stiles could ask why. “The run will be good for them.” Stiles muttered to himself, already beginning to doze again. He stirred a bit when there was a loud crash downstairs, but fell asleep again when Derek started growling in the same, soothing way he did on Pack Nights, after everyone has inevitably made their way into a pile on His Mattress. He woke up fully about ten minutes later, when Scott stumbled into the room, trying desperately not to trip while balancing the tray in his arms, on which was a large bowl that was steaming lightly and a glass of water.

“We made chicken noodle soup,” the boy declared, smiling at Stiles as Derek helped the sick boy sit up and let him brace against his body. “We tried to make tomato soup but... yeah... So here we go!” he declared as he carefully set the tray over Stiles legs. Stiles sniffled and peered up at Scott with narrowed, slightly puffy eyes.

“...You broke something, didn't you?” Stiles said hoarsely; the guilty look on the Beta's face was enough to have Stiles groaning and thumping his head against Derek's shoulder. Scott ducked his head and Boyd (who stood awkwardly in the doorway) bowed his head guiltily. Stiles opened his eyes and sighed, before sending the two of them a small smile. “Thank you both for making me soup. It smells great.” The two Beta's immediately perked up, Scott beaming and Boyd sending him a rather shy looking smile. 

“You can leave now,” Derek rumbled; Stiles elbowed him lightly, careful not to jostle his soup. Derek scowled slightly down at him, and then looked up. “You both did a good job,” he finally said; the two Wolves left smiling. “You spoil them,” the Alpha told him; Stiles grunted, leaning forward and carefully eating his soup. Derek sat up slightly so that the sick boy could lean against him better. Stiles managed to eat the entire bowl before making Derek lay back and turning around so that he could nuzzle his face into the Wolf's chest. Derek began that soothing growl of his after a few startled moments of silence. One of his hands rubbed up and down Stiles' spine. The boy mumbled, and soon fell asleep, snoring due to congestion. 

It was an hour later that he woke to Derek and Peter having a whispered argument. Stiles couldn't really focus, and he felt muzzy, like he was in one of those weird dreams. When he turned his head, Peter's face was, like, four inches from his own, but he was too groggy to be frightened though.

“Pedowolf, why you in m'dream?” He slurred out, confused. “I dun wanna bad touch.” Peter's face became deadpan.

“You're never going to let me live that down, are you?” the former Alpha asked, then shook his head. “Is your father in a relationship, Stiles?” Stiles blinked, confused.

“Dad?” He asked muzzily. “He's outta town...” Peter nodded, and put his face even closer, until all Stiles could see were his big, pale gray/blue eyes. “Pretty,” he muttered, blinking groggily.

“Thank you,” Peter's voice drifted through his head while he stared into those eyes. “Now, Stiles, is. Your. Father. Dating. Anyone.” Stiles blinked slowly.

“Nooooo, not after Mom...” he muttered, fascinated when those eyes started glowing a bright, clear blue. “Ooh...”

“Excellent,” Peter's voice was a little lower, a little more growly. After a second, he was gone, his voice coming from the other side of the room. Stiles couldn't understand what he was saying, and grumpily turned his face back into his pillow. His nice, comfy pillow with the nice thumping sound. There was a thump on the other side of the room, like the door was shutting, but Stiles was already more-than-halfway to being asleep again.

“You realize you just sent Peter after the Sheriff, right?” His pillow asked; Stiles frowned and smacked the spot right next to his head.

“Shuddup, stupid talkin' pillow...” he muttered, and fell asleep a few seconds later.

Stiles was sick for almost the entire time his Dad was gone, and the day he finally got better, he wandered downstairs to find the entire house a mess. He'd peeked in on Derek (who he'd finally convinced to go sleep in his room), but since the Sourwolf was fast asleep, he'd left him alone. Peter was sitting on the couch, mostly asleep, and the rest of the Pack was at school (or in Isaac's case, out Running). Stiles shushed the former Alpha when the Wolf opened his mouth. Peter shut his mouth and nodded his head in response. Stiles shook his head and quietly started cleaning the living room, taking dirty dishes to the kitchen (where he flinched in horror at the mess, food stains on nearly every surface, and how did the microwaves door get broken?!). He then went back through and picked up all the dirty clothes before taking them to the laundry room (where he found a basket full of pale pink clothes that had once been white, and a single red sock, which he made a deadpan look at). After he started a load, he returned to the living room and began to vacuum, making Peter grimace slightly before he got up and moved upstairs, making Stiles role his eyes and mutter about Zombie-Wolves and messy Cubs and how hopeless everyone was at keeping the house clean without him and then wondering if they even had any food left that wasn't spoiled from lack of use...

“Well, let's see what we can salvage, shall we?” he muttered with a sigh, and moved around the kitchen. First thing he did was start a load of dishes (after pulling a _bra_ out of the machine, one of Erica's, if he wasn't mistaken...), before he grabbed some cleaning supplies and scrubbed every surface over-zealously, determined to kill every germ that had taken up residence while he was sick. Once that was done, he put away the clean dishes and started another load. Then he took out the trash, dumped the tablecloth in the laundry room, swept and mopped the floor, and threw out all the spoiled foods (mostly milk and other dairy products, as well as a loaf of bread and the last of the bagels.). Only after he had done this (and exchanged the last of the dishes in the dish washer) did he start to think about dinner.

“Let's see,” He murmured, going through the cabinets and pantry to see what all they had. “I could make steak, with green beans... Tomatoes... With Chimichurri sauce... A plain salad... Corn... And for desert...” He pursed his lips, poking through the pantry again. “Let's see... Huh, that heavy cream is still good... Let's go for a Chocolate Crème Brulee.” He gathered all the needed materials, and then paused thoughtfully. The steak-and-veggies meal he had planned was for the grill...

But, hey, he could _totally_ improvise! 

Carefully moving around, he decided to make the Crème Brulee first, since it had to sit in the fridge for two hours after being cooked. Swiftly, he Preheated the oven at three hundred fifty degrees, and got to work.

He got a medium-sized saucepan, and set it on the oven to begin heating. While that was happening, Stiles poured in one quart of heavy cream, a cup of sugar, an ounce of chocolate liqueur (he went with the recommended Godiva Liqueur), and a half-tablespoon of vanilla extract. Once it was warm, he started carefully whisking in the single ounce of unsweetened chocolate, and the two ounces of cocoa powder. Once it was all mixed well, he set the burner to its lowest setting to keep the mix warm, and then grabbed all eleven eggs needed for the next part. Quickly and neatly, he separated yolk and white, tossed the white and shells into the trash, and dumped all the yolks into a stainless steel bowl ( _why_ it needed to be that, instead of just using a plain old  _plastic_ bowl, Stiles didn't know). Sighing softly, he began to swiftly whisk the eggs, while slowly adding the chocolate-cream mix, a little at a time.

Once it was all mixed together, Stiles strained the mix and carefully poured it into eleven separate, small ramekins (Weird names for a small porcelain or glass owl used for all sorts of food. They were also called Bouillon bowls or ramequin. Stiles didn't remember  _why,_ but, oh well.). Once that was done, he carefully placed the ramekins into a large baking pan, and then filled the pan with hot water until he'd reached the middle of the ramekins. Then, he carefully slid the pan into the oven, setting the timer for thirty minutes, though he'd check it after twenty-five. The Crème Brulee just needed to be firm in the middle, after all.

Now that that was done, Stiles wiped his forehead and got to work on the steak-and-veggies he planned for the main course. First, he dumped a bunch of green beans into a tin-foil-made tray, that had high rims on it. Next he tossed in a bunch of grape tomatoes, cut in half. He added a tablespoon of olive oil (The expensive kind... Derek spoiled him.) and seasoned the lot of it with salt and ground pepper. He may have added a bit of steak seasoning just for the hell of it, but, hey, as long as it tasted good, no one was complaining (And seeing as how he had had to throw away seven pizza boxes and a bunch of Chinese take-out cups... Yeah, no one was going to complain about, like,  _anything_ .). That done, he had to wait to put it in the oven, since the Crème Brulee was in there and all...

Stiles got to work on the steaks next. Unlike the recipe, he decided  _against_ halving the strip steaks, and left the fat on. The recipe itself was a healthy-minded one and, had he been making it for his Dad, Stiles  _would_ have followed it to mostly a “T”, but, well...

Werewolves.

With Super!Digestive powers.

And Metabolisms from hell. 

Shaking his head and regaining his focus, Stiles seasoned the meat with salt and pepper (as per the recipe), and then added a touch of garlic powder, curry powder, and some steak seasoning. That done, he put a new skillet on the stove, put the heat on a decent temperature, and dumped in some oil. While the oil was heating, he used a can opener and opened three cans of corn, and promptly dumped them into a pot to heat up. It was inelegant, but, hey, it worked didn't it? Humming softly to himself, Stiles carefully began cooking the large pile of steaks he had sitting out, just buying his time until he needed to check the Crème Brulee (which he did right on time. They were finished five minutes early. He'd need to remember that for later... For now, he just put the little ramekins in the fridge, put the veggies in the oven for fifteen minutes at the same temperature, and left it at that.). He cooked the steaks until they were medium-rare, and flipped them onto a plate. He then stepped away and made a quick bowl of salad, using the last of the grape tomatoes, halved, and mixed them with the lettuce and some thin slices of onion. He pulled the veggies from the oven and sat them on the counter-top, and then moved away.

He got a clean tablecloth and spread it over the table, before moving newly clean plates into place, silverware and glasses of water in place for himself, Derek, and Peter, with empty glasses setting out for the rest of the Pack. Once that was done, Stiles put all the food onto proper plates/bowls, and set them on the table. Finished, he looked over it all with a critical eye, and then smiled to himself, pleased. Taking off his mitts (he had had to put them on to move the hotter plates), the teenager padded quietly up the stairs and gently knocked on Derek's door before peeking his head in. Derek lifted his head groggily from his pillow, and Stiles sent him a small smile.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” he greeted warmly. “Dinners ready, if you're hungry-” He blinked, head jerking back slightly in surprise, as Derek just _appeared_ in front of him, eyes wide and eager.

“Dinner. Now,” he rumbled; Stiles gave him a bemused look.

“Aye, aye, He-Man,” he replied; Derek only grunted and brushed past him, zooming downstairs. Peter slipped from his room and swiftly followed the Alpha, making Stiles snicker.

“I feel so appreciated,” he murmured, trotting downstairs and joining the two Wolves at the table, quickly dishing out both mens food in a fit of parental-instinct (Peter was looking a bit peeky and Derek still looked tired). He sat and smiled at the two.

“Well?” He asked, and grinned a bit. “God but I've missed saying that, and doing this.” 

“And you've been missed,” Peter told him as Stiles was making his plate. Derek grunted.

“That reminds me,” Stiles said as he began cutting up his steak. “Who broke the microwave?” Derek paused and turned his head to stare at the appliance like he had never seen it before. Peter snorted.

“That would be Isaac,” the Beta told him; Stiles and Derek both turned incredulous eyes on him. “The latch got caught on his shirt sleeve, and he automatically yanked. Well,” Peter gave him his usual _Like a Boss_ face, sardonic eyebrow raised and all. “I believe you can deduce what happened next.” Stiles blinked.

“ _Deduce_?” He asked incredulously. “Who the hell uses _deduce_ anymore? Should I start calling you Sherlock? And if I did, who would be Watson? Oh! Who's James Moriarty, and who's Mycroft? And no way in _hell_ am I the landlady!” He declared, scowling. Peter gave him a dry, amused look. And Derek had returned to steadily demolishing his meal. Stiles shook his head and finished his plate as well, before something came to him.

“Wait a minute,” he muttered, and turned to stare at Peter narrowly. “Why did you want to know about my Dad when I was sick?” Peter blinked.

“I am attempting to court him as a mate,” Peter replied nonchalantly; Stiles made an undignified squawking sound. 

“ _Whah-_?”

“As is Chris Argent.” 

“ _WHAH-_?”

Meanwhile, Derek just kept eating, and pretended that nothing else existed but his food.A/N: Prompt from Travel1701 on FF.N, and weebleroxanne on AO3, both of which gave pretty much the same prompt.

ALSO: Kudos to all others who had vague mentions of this prompt. I assure you, all specific Prompts will most likely be used, no worries!

ENJOY!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Done. Kudos to HiddenByFaeries for suggesting Peter's and Papa Argent's interest in Papa Stilinski.
> 
> ALSO: The Chocolate Crème Brulee wasn't finished. After the two hours in the fridge, you dust it with sugar, crystallize it with a propane torch, and then serve immediately.
> 
> PLEASE DO NOT USE THE TORCH UNLESS CONFIDENT IN YOUR ABILITIES. I DO NOT PROMOTE HOUSE FIRES OR BURNS FROM SUCH A DEVICE. USE AT YOUR OWN RISK!
> 
> Thank you!
> 
> R&R!


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